Psychologically Disturbed
by pretend-to-care
Summary: Holmes and Watson are caught up in their own personal problems, until an attempt on Watson's life signals the setting in motion of Moriarty's newest plan. The two are thrown into another impossible mystery, putting everyone's lives at stake. R&R!
1. Boxing

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any other characters associated with the movie. **

**A/N: Hopefully this is an exciting enough chapter to get the story going without dragging. R&R! **

* * *

_First point of attack: weakest area, most likely his lower left ribcage. Second point: nose. Break if possible. Next, windpipe, inhibit breathing. Solar plexus, stop breathing altogether. Right hook to jaw. Send him to the ground. Victory assured. Summary of injuries: two cracked ribs, broken nose, damaged esophagus, missing tooth. Estimated time: twenty-three seconds. _

The roaring crowd interrupted Holmes's thought process. The sound of bets being proclaimed and insults being traded polluted the air.

"What's wrong, pretty boy?" the burly fighter sneered.

Without a reply, Holmes slammed his fist into his opponent's ribcage, just above his stomach. When he doubled over, Holmes uppercut his nose. There was a sharp crack and blood began to flow. The man's head snapped backwards, exposing his throat, and Holmes chopped his windpipe with the side of his hand. The man gagged and Holmes clapped his hands together, thrusting them into the place between both sides of the man's ribcage, knocking the wind out of him completely. For the second time the fighter doubled over, and Holmes threw his fist across the man's face.

Like a dry sand castle, the man toppled to the ground. Holmes stood, looking around at the cheering and booing crowd without expression. _Twenty-three seconds exactly. _

"Mr. Holmes is the winner!" bellowed the announcer, raising Holmes's arm in the air. "Will anyone take him?"

Not a soul made a move to do so. Several men, knowing with a certainty that Holmes would not remain unmatched for long, began placing their bets on the sleuth to win before an opponent had even been selected. They weren't to be disappointed.

Rather than a coherent reply in the English language, the challenge was answered with an earth-shaking grunt. Holmes turned around and craned his head back to literally look up into the face of the biggest man he'd ever seen. In all seven-by-three feet of his glory, the giant Holmes had battled in connection with the mysterious resurrection of Lord Blackwood stood with a smug look on his face.

"Je prends il," the mountain rumbled.

Men immediately began changing their bets. Holmes swallowed and mustered his courage as the giant stripped off his shirt, stepping into the ring.

"You remember me, Mr. Holmes," he said in French.

Holmes nodded, replying fluently in the language. "Very well, Dredger."

He smiled. "No magic wand to save you this time, sparrow."

"I've always thought of myself as more of a starling," Holmes mumbled. The giant laughed, a deep-bellied, echoing laugh, and Holmes refused to admit to himself that he was terrified. _Just another obstacle_, he thought to himself. _Use his weight against him._ "Forgive me, but I was quite sure you went to prison," Holmes said, attempting to stall.

"I was pardoned," Dredger said. "Seeing how you and your medical friend survived, there was a rather significant lack of bodies. In the eyes of the law, I am innocent."

"About as innocent as the barmaid in the pub next door. You know her well, of course…seeing as she's your mother." Amid laughter and jeering from the handful of spectators who understood the banter, Holmes thought, _Perhaps if I provoke him it will undermine his judgment. _

The match began.

The two men circled each other slowly, one step of the giant's for every two or three of Holmes'. "You don't stand a chance, sparrow," Dredger said.

"On the contrary, I appear to be standing right now." Holmes studied the way his opponent moved, quickly formulating a rudimentary plan of attack. _Firstly, go for the knees. Unbalance him. Second, break his wrist. Then—_

Without warning, a fist the size of his head slammed into Holmes's gut, sending him rocketing into the side of the ring. A collective groan rose from the audience.

Dazed, with the wind knocked thoroughly out of him, Holmes climbed to his feet, just in time to be lifted off the ground and flung into the wall again. His head snapped back into the wood and he grunted in pain. Dizzily he staggered up once more. This time, at least, he managed to raise his fists in an attempt to block the haymaker aimed at his face. He stumbled back a few paces and gathered his strength, propelling his fist into the giant's stomach with everything he had. Holmes went cross-eyed as his knuckles collided with a rib that had to have the circumference of his forearm.

The giant shoved him backwards, grabbing his face and banging his forehead into that of Holmes with the force of a sledgehammer. Sherlock heard himself make a strange noise as he toppled over into the dirt.

"What's the matter, Mr. Holmes?" the giant taunted. "Est-ce que tu n'es pas invincible?" With that, he picked Holmes up and threw him back down, smirking at the utterance of pain that passed the detective's lips. "Au revoir, oiseau." Dredger kicked Holmes in the side before turning and retreating from the ring to be met by a mob of supporters.

Sherlock Holmes lay on his stomach in the dirt, blood trickling from his nose, head throbbing something fierce, the rest of his body virtually yelling oaths at him. He stared blankly at the feet of the departing spectators.

Holmes became suddenly aware of something entirely new: gentle hands. They took a hold of his arm and rolled him over, then lifted him off the muddy ground and draped him over someone's shoulder. He decided it would be a good time for a nap as he was carried out of the ring.

* * *

**Hope you enjoyed it! I apologize if the language was confusing. Holmes and Dredger were constantly speaking French, but for reading convenience I left it English, except for a couple specific quotes. Their translation is "I'll take him", "Could it be that you are not invincible?" and then "Goodbye, sparrow". Thank you, disoriented-problem, for translations!**


	2. The Duke of Hampshire

**Disclaimer: Don't own Holmes, Watson, Mrs. Hudson, Gladstone, or Irene. However, this particular Duke of Hampshire is mine. Not that he really matters. **

**A/N: This is a pretty long chapter, so I apologize in advance for taking up so much of your time. It's a bit of a filler too, so there isn't much action. I tried to balance it out with some Holmes-Watson rivalry. Enjoy!**

* * *

When Holmes came to, he was lying in his own bed at Baker Street and it was morning. Slightly amazed, he attempted to look around and discovered he was unable to move his neck. Further inspection revealed the cause of this to be a thick brace. Holmes huffed.

"Now, don't be like that," came a voice. "You should be grateful I had one of those handy."

Holmes attempted to look at the speaker but encountered difficulties with lifting his head. "Watson, I know that in some twisted way you must be trying to help. However, I believe I can feel my windpipe being constricted into a useless straw. Would you be so kind as to get this infernal thing off me?"

Watson's smiling face appeared in Holmes's field of vision. "No. No, I would not be so kind."

The detective sighed. "If I suffocate, on your head be it."

Watson pulled up a seat by Holmes's bed. "Would you like a full report on the extent of your injuries?"

"I'm going to get one anyway, aren't I."

"Ah, ever so perceptive." Watson leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees, still wearing a pleasant smile. "You have a case of whiplash, hence the brace. You also have a tiny fracture in the front of your skull. In the back, your head was encasing several large splinters of wood. However, with a small amount of surgery, I was able to remove them. You gave yourself a compound fracture in two of your knuckles, and three of your ribs are broken, not to mention the _extensive_ bruising of your torso and face."

"Is that all?"

"You owe me £100."

"Why?!"

"I bet on you. You lost miserably."

"That doesn't mean I owe you!" Holmes exclaimed.

"On the contrary. You rather disappointed me."

"Did you arrive at the ring before or after the brute challenged me?"

"Before."

Holmes was rather astonished. "And you still bet on me?"

"I have quite a bit of faith in you, old boy," Watson said. "However, you were stupid for accepting the challenge. I expected better of you."

"What would you have done?" Holmes retorted.

"Graciously declined."

He scoffed. "I'm sure." Holmes sighed briskly. "Well, get my coat, Watson. I must apprehend the fiend before he leaves the country." He began to sit up and was promptly shoved back down by Watson.

"You're bedridden for the next six weeks," Watson said flatly.

"Six weeks?!"

"At least."

"Watson, please!" Holmes pleaded.

"I must insist on this, my friend."

"You torture me," he whimpered.

"Yes, I know. And I get immense pleasure from it," Watson replied. "Now be a good, obedient patient and stay there. I'll go get you some soup from Mrs. Hudson." The doctor rose and made his way down the stairs to the kitchen. "Soup done, Mrs. Hudson?"

"Yes, here it is," the landlady said. "Would you like some as well, doctor?"

"Yes please."

She ladled a large portion into two bowls, adding a few final spices before handing them to Watson. "What about drinks?"

"Lemonade for me," Watson said. "I'll see about Holmes."

"The poor dear," Mrs. Hudson lamented, shaking her head. "When you brought him home last night I thought he was dead. He looked so much like a few pounds of ground beef that I saw Gladstone licking his chops."

Watson smiled. "It'll take a little more than a bad boxing match to take down our Holmes."

Just then, the moment was ruined by a loud, steady pounding on the floor above. The chandelier shook and Mrs. Hudson cringed.

"Holmes," they both sighed.

"I'll go see what he wants," Watson grumbled. "Thank you for the soup, nanny. I'll be right back for that lemonade."

Carefully balancing the soup bowls, Watson hurried up the stairs and shoved the door open with his foot. "Holmes! Unless I am a horribly inaccurate doctor, you still have your voice and therefore no reason to go banging on the floor like a child with a temper tantrum!"

"Well I'm sorry," Holmes said, setting down Watson's cane.

"You are already a thief, conman, and ruffian. Don't add liar to your list." Watson set one of the bowls down on the table beside Holmes. "Here. Lunch."

"I'm not hungry."

"Shut up and eat. What do you want to drink?"

"What are you having?"

"Lemonade."

"Me too, then."

"Two lemonades!" Watson called down to Mrs. Hudson. He turned to find Holmes attempting to eat while lying down. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Attempting to stretch my ability beyond this ridiculous prison you insist on bestowing upon me." Some of the soup spilled from the spoon. Holmes yelped. "Ah! Watson! Hot!"

"Yes, it is rather spicy, isn't it."

"Burning!"

"Hmm. Perhaps you shouldn't eat soup that way, then."

"Just sit me up," Holmes grumbled.

"Nothing would give me greater pleasure." Watson pulled Holmes up, leaning him against the headboard. "Would you like me to feed you as well?"

"Yes, would you?"

"No."

"But my hand is broken."

"Then use your other one."

Holmes huffed and set about eating his soup with his left hand. Satisfied, Watson started on his, when suddenly he was hit in the face with something rather damp and mushy. Slowly he looked at Holmes, slurping from his spoon with a little too much innocence.

"My…_dear_ Holmes…did you just fling a carrot at me?"

"Watson, what kind of an accusation is that?"

The doctor flicked the vegetable off his face to a happy Gladstone. "An accurate one, I'm afraid."

Holmes shook his head. "Now, now, Watson. Don't go pointing fingers at the cripple."

Glowering, Watson went back to his lunch.

The detective smiled. However, his little victory was short-lived, as suddenly Watson was standing over him and placing the dog on his legs. "Here, Holmes. Gladstone would like to keep you company."

Holmes looked horrified. "No! Get him off, Watson!"

"Why? You don't like him? Holmes, I'm shocked at you."

Holmes glared at his friend as Gladstone made himself at home in Sherlock's soup bowl. "You are a very wicked man, doctor."

With an almost sheepish smile, Watson set Gladstone back on the ground. "You can have mine, Holmes." He traded his bowl for Holmes's drool-tainted one, setting it on the floor for the overjoyed dog to finish.

"Thank you, Watson. It's quite a relief to know you will never have the conscience to begin a life of crime."

Watson sat back down, scrutinizing his friend. After a minute, Holmes looked up at him and raised his eyebrows. "What?"

"Why, Holmes?"

"Because the clouds tend to trap gases such as carbon dioxide, which hold in heat and—"

"No, no, not the greenhouse effect."

"Then what, doctor?"

"You know very well what," Watson said. "Why were you boxing last night?"

"Why wasn't I boxing last night?"

Watson was serious. "Holmes, you only box when you are happy and rather cocky, bored and full of unused energy, or when something is very wrong. Yesterday you were certainly not happy, and you weren't rambunctious enough to be bored."

"Preposterous."

"Holmes." The detective was graced with what could only be described as a Watson look. "Do you really think you can keep something so obvious from me? What's wrong, my friend?"

Holmes sighed. "Get me yesterday's newspaper, Watson."

Slightly confused but satisfied that he was at least getting an answer, Watson went and retrieved the paper for Holmes. He handed it to him and Sherlock promptly handed it back.

"Front page. Main headline."

"Main headline?"

_**DUKE OF HAMPSHIRE REMARRIES AFTER SENSATIONAL DIVORCE!**_

Watson stared at his friend. "…the Duke of Hampshire—"

"Irene."

"Oh." Watson frowned. "I'm sorry, old boy…."

Holmes sighed. "It's to be expected."

The doctor slowly furrowed his brow. "Yes, really…why are you surprised? You knew it was coming."

Holmes was intently examining the pattern of his quilt. "In the light of…recent events…I had hoped…." He sighed. "Well...I suppose you can't teach an old dog new tricks." He looked forlornly at Gladstone.

"Get some rest, old boy," Watson said. "Everything will happen the way it is meant to."

* * *

**Sadly, I must agree with Watson on this one. Holmes _should _get some rest. R&R!**


	3. Watson's Diary

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mrs. Hudson, or Gladstone. Or Ms. Adler. However, the darling man at the end of this chapter is ALL MINE SO HANDS OFF. **

**A/N: I really tried to research the amount of time it would take all these injuries to heal. I think I'm pretty accurate, but please don't hate if I'm not spot-on.**

* * *

_Week One__: compound fractures in two knuckles, skull fracture, several head wounds, three cracked ribs, whiplash. Pelted with several more items of food. Withheld from him the violin, was forced to change urine-soaked sheets in return. He is now making hats from the newspaper. Handful of minor cases solved. _

_Week Two__: fingers and head wounds healing well. Penned a ten-page discourse on analyzing a horse's hooves as dictated by Holmes. Hats have become boats. He demanded a cookie every day at four in the afternoon this week. Wouldn't share with Gladstone. Few more small cases finished. _

_Week Three__: all physical injuries healing quickly. Lost nine games of chess in a row to him. Cleaned up the ruins of his Hindu Temple of Cards. Boats have become crumpled objects to throw at people. Listened to him sing a seven-verse composition about his horrid life at the top of his lungs. Got several complaints from the neighbors. Noted his apparent depression. No cases solved. _

_Week Four__: whiplash healed, neck brace removed. Received a kiss on the cheek for that. Foiled his first attempt to escape out the window. Caught him in another, tangled up and hanging from Mrs. Hudson's clothesline. Hid the newspaper from him, as the headline mentioned the widowing of the Duchess of Hampshire (Ms. Adler). He found it anyway and kissed Gladstone. Must warn Mrs. Hudson of his amorous mood. Depression seems to have lessened significantly, if not completely gone. 76 minor cases disposed of. _

_Week Five__: knuckles stable, ribs nearly healed, skull nearly healed. Found him knitting today. I was perturbed. Let him leave the room, but not the house. Ended up chasing him down the street. Punished him by refusing to give him cake for dessert. Was awakened at two in the morning and caught him downstairs with cake in mouth…and on face. Mystery of the missing devil's food solved. _

_Week Six__: _

Watson looked up from his medical diary and met Holmes's pleading eyes. "Holmes…."

"Please, doctor," Holmes said. "I don't think I can stay sane in this room much longer. This wallpaper is beginning to enter my nightmares."

"You weren't sane to begin with," Watson replied. "I was going to say…you seem to show great progress. I think. Your behavior leaves something to be desired, but it always does. And…it has been six weeks."

Holmes sat up straight, hardly daring to believe that he was finally about to be released from house arrest.

"Your injuries, while not all completely healed, are stable enough for you to move about. However," Watson said quickly, "I don't want you boxing again for a few more weeks."

"Yes, yes, of course," Holmes said, flinging the covers off of himself—a rather drastic action, as he had little in the way of pants on underneath—and hopping out of bed.

"I'm serious, Holmes. Look at me. No vigorous activity for the next little while," Watson said sternly.

"Of course not," Holmes said, hunting through the room for a pair of trousers.

"Would you like me to define a little while?"

"No, no, I have it."

"Excellent." Watson stood. "I'm relieved that you've recovered, old boy. If you'll excuse me, Mary would like to discuss flowers."

Holmes was too elated to even crack a joke, although the opportunity was priceless. "By all means, get out of here, doctor. You've hovered at my bedside long enough."

"Do me a favor and put on a trifle more clothing before you go out terrorizing London again," Watson added as he donned his hat and coat.

"Of course," Holmes called from beneath the bed.

"Farewell, old—oh. Holmes," Watson said, peering back through the door, "I have one request."

"Yes, doctor?"

"Leave Irene alone. I don't want you going to Hampshire, or anywhere else she may be. Wherever that woman goes, chaos and violence are sure to follow, and that is exactly what we are trying to keep you out of," Watson said.

Holmes popped up on the other side of the bed. "The thought had never crossed my mind."

"Excellent. Goodbye, my friend." Watson closed the door behind him.

"That is," Holmes said to Gladstone, "the thought never _crossed_ my mind. Rather, it floated around within it for quite some time." He stood up, triumphantly holding a pair of pants. Slipping around the floor in his socks as he pulled the trousers on, Holmes quickly dressed and made himself somewhat presentable.

_Fingers are still tender, old boy,_ he thought, flexing them. _Be sure to strike with your left hand. _

"I bid you adieu, Gladstone," Holmes said grandly, bowing to the bull-pup before climbing skillfully out the rear window.

* * *

Watson was in a good mood as he strode down the crowded, busy street. The sky was clear, a rarity in London, and he was going to arrange wedding preparations with his soon-to-be wife. The only thing that could possibly put a damper on the day was—no, he mustn't think about that. Holmes had promised, sort of, and he would just have to trust him. But knowing Holmes and his selective hearing, it was likely that all he would have retained from the conversation was 'injuries', 'healed', 'boxing', 'vigorous activity', and 'Irene'.

The doctor shook his head. If Holmes were to go right off and do something stupid, Watson would personally assure him a few more weeks of bed rest. He would do his best to put the fool from his mind. After all, it wasn't as though—

Watson's musings were interrupted as he bumped into an old, hunchbacked man.

"Oh, pardon me," he said sincerely. "My apologies."

"No trouble, sir," the old man smiled, showing two rows of rotting teeth. "No trouble at all." The cripple reached into his own pocket. "I have something for you, sir."

Watson lowered his brow. "Something for me?"

"Yes," the man chuckled. He pulled his hand from the pocket and took Watson's, turning it palm-up. "From an acquaintance of your friend, Mr. Holmes."

A warning bell went off in Watson's head. "Holmes? What does he have to—"

The man suddenly produced a needle from his draping sleeve, jabbing it into Watson's wrist. The doctor yelped in pain and the old man threw off his cloak.

Like a butterfly from a caterpillar, in the hunchback's place rose a tall, muscular young man. He smiled at Watson as the doctor staggered dizzily back, bumping into the nearby wall. "This is for your friend also," he said in a deep, youthful voice, reaching into his pocket a second time and bringing out a small piece of paper.

Watson lost his footing and slid slowly down the wall, looking up at his assailant through blurring vision as the man slipped the note into the doctor's breast pocket. His mouth was quickly drying and someone was breathing, fast and hoarsely. It took a moment of confused thought to realize it was himself.

"Until we may meet again, Doctor Watson," the young man said. "I shall attend your funeral." With that he stood and disappeared into the rest of the crowd.

Numbly Watson felt spit welling at the corner of his mouth, slowly dripping over. His extremities felt tingly, and his eyelids were so heavy….

The doctor slowly closed his eyes.

* * *

**DUNDUNDUN. R&R! ^3^**


	4. Between the Lines

**Disclaimer: I don't own Mrs. Hudson, Mary, Sherly, or Johnny. **

**A/N: I have absolutely no idea whether or not Mrs. Hudson's name is really Margaret, so for all intents and purposes, let us say it is. Holmes may be a little OOC at the beginning, so I apologize in advance. And this chapter is long...like five pages on Word. So enjoy! **

* * *

Mrs. Hudson was sleeping quite fitfully despite the mountain of worries accumulating in her mind. At the summit, of course, were Holmes and Watson. However, the sleeping draught Holmes had found for her was working quite well. For a few hours she'd been able to forget her troubles and take her mind off her boys.

At about three in the morning, after the draught had worn off, she was awakened by a loud sort of crash in the kitchen. She sat up, scrutinizing the doorway for a moment, before throwing back the covers. Stepping into her slippers and pulling on her bathrobe, Mrs. Hudson quietly opened the drawer of her nightstand, taking out the small gun she kept there.

Slowly, the aging woman pushed open her door and tiptoed to the kitchen. It was dark, but she was positive she'd heard a noise. "Steady, Margaret, steady…" she murmured to herself.

"Your name's Margaret?"

Mrs. Hudson let out a high yelp, swinging the gun in the direction of the voice and firing off a bullet.

"For goodness sake, Nanny!" Holmes yelled. "Control yourself!" A match was lit and Holmes's face was thrown into flickering relief.

Mrs. Hudson put her hand on her heart. "Goodness, Mr. Holmes. You terrified me."

"Sorry, Nanny," Holmes said, lighting the kitchen gas lamps. "But might I point out that you attempted to shoot me." He looked over at the bullet hole in the wall. "Thank heavens you missed."

"Why are you up at this hour?"

"I was getting some water. For Watson," Holmes said anxiously. "In…in case he wakes up. I drank all of it before."

Mrs. Hudson gave Holmes a small, sad smile, reaching out and touching his shoulder. "It wasn't so long ago it was you being carried in here by him. Never thought I'd see it in reverse."

"Me neither," Holmes mumbled. He looked up at her and for a moment, she saw a familiar look in his eyes, the one belonging to a little boy who had lost a puppy or a favorite toy, wanting comfort and reassurance that everything would work out alright. "What if…he doesn't wake up?"

"Now Holmes, don't talk like that," Mrs. Hudson said. "He'll wake up, he will."

Holmes sighed and smiled tiredly. "Your name is Margaret?"

Mrs. Hudson raised a brow. "Maggie to my admirers."

He looked shocked. "You had admirers?"

"Goodnight, Holmes." With a little smirk, Mrs. Hudson headed back to her room.

Holmes returned to his own. Mary, previously curled up in an armchair and asleep, was awake and wide-eyed. "Was that a gunshot, Mr. Holmes?" she said worriedly.

"Just Nanny," he said, setting the glass in his hand down on the bookshelf. "Go back to sleep."

"I can't," she said forlornly. Both cast a glance at the figure of Watson, unconscious in Holmes's bed—it wasn't like he needed it. "It's been sixteen hours, Mr. Holmes. Don't you think he would've woken up by now?"

Holmes said nothing, reclaiming his place in the other armchair and staring at his sleeping friend.

Both Holmes and Mary had dozed off again after an hour or two, and both jerked immediately awake at the groan Watson made at about 5:30 AM.

His eyes were open and he looked confused. He was pale, and shivering with fever, but alive and conscious. The pair of them leapt from their chairs and instantly began swamping him with love and attention.

"John, darling, are you alright?"

"Watson, what _have_ you done _this_ time?"

"I was so worried, love."

"Did you perhaps get a look at the fiend's face?"

"I'm so relieved you're awake I could kiss you."

"Me too. But don't, it would most likely kill him," Holmes said.

Watson groaned again. "L-Leave me al-lone."

They eased down their excitement. "Thirsty, doctor?" Holmes asked. Watson gave an affirmative noise and he proudly retrieved the glass of water. Mary stroked Watson's hair as Holmes propped him up and slowly poured the liquid down his throat. As he finished some of the color returned to his face.

"Oh my heavens!" Mrs. Hudson burst through the door. "He's awake!" She slammed a stool down by Holmes and sat, hitting his arm. "Why didn't you tell me, boy?"

"Oh, John," Mary whimpered, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her face in his shoulder. Weakly Watson patted her back.

"What h-happened?" he asked.

"We'd appreciate it if _you_ answered that question, Watson," Holmes said. "However, my side of the story is this. I was going…out…and happened to come across a doctor, lying unconscious on the side of the street. He looked rather familiar so I brought him home with me, called up his fiancé, and let him use my bed—which, by the way, I want back."

Watson gave his friend a small smile. "Thank you, H-Holmes."

"Incidentally, how did you get that way?" Holmes asked.

"I was heading…to Mary's and I bumped…into an old man."

"How rude," Holmes said. Mrs. Hudson flicked his ear.

"He…he said he had something for me…from an acquaintance of yours, Holmes. He jabbed me with a…pin. It must have been covered in poison. Then he threw off his cloak and…he was a young man." Holmes silently mouthed 'magic' to no one in particular. Watson furrowed his eyebrows thoughtfully. "And he gave me a note. For you, Holmes."

Watson reached into his pocket for the piece of paper, but it was empty. Holmes cleared his throat and all eyes turned to him. He was holding the unfolded note. "_My dear Mr. Holmes_," he read, "_I hope this letter finds you well, unlike your dear friend here. You must understand that his death_—" Holmes glanced up at the still living, breathing Watson before continuing. "_…that his death, however devastating it may be to you, means absolutely nothing to me. With your wonderful mind, I'm sure you can infer from this that disposing of any of your nearest and dearest companions is no different than swatting a fly. I welcome your looming attempt at avenging dear Watson's death with open arms, yet I plan to make it as difficult as possible for you. Thus, with every step you gain, you risk losing the life of a friend. Which do you value more, detective? Progress, or preservation? I eagerly await your decision. Until then, Mr. Holmes_."

He looked up, unnerved.

After a silence, Watson spoke. "There is no signature?"

"None," Holmes said. "However, I believe we know who it is from."

"Who?" Mary whispered, cheeks faintly tearstained.

Watson kissed her temple. "No one, Mary. Please, you and Mrs. Hudson…allow Holmes and I a moment?"

"Yes, I think that would be appropriate," Mrs. Hudson said, standing up. "Come along, dear."

Mary took Watson's face in her hands. "I love you, John."

"I love you too—ooh." Watson closed his eyes as Mary kissed him devotedly, wrapping her arms around his neck.

Holmes stared with a perturbed expression, brow furrowed and lips slightly pursed. Finally he cleared his throat and Watson broke it off, looking a little sheepish. "I'll…I'll see you later, dear."

Mary nodded and stood up. She kissed Holmes's forehead as she passed. "Thank you for finding him," she said, and left.

"Quite the, er…ardent young lady, isn't she," Holmes remarked.

"She's already lost one groom, Holmes," Watson pointed out. "Naturally she would be terrified of losing a second."

"You flatter yourself, doctor," Holmes said. "Now, I believe we are coming to the same conclusion as to the man behind your attempted assassination."

"Professor Moriarty," Watson said.

"Precisely."

"Let me see the note, Holmes," Watson said. The detective handed it to him and the doctor scanned it. "Holmes, you left this part out. At the end, it says…_I took the liberty of giving your best to Ms. Adler_."

"I saw no need to advertise my personal interests," Holmes said in a businesslike tone. A tiny smile appeared on Watson's face. "Now, let us see first what we can infer from the content of the letter. '_My dear Mr. Holmes'_, he is telling me he knows just who I am, but of course, we were already aware of that. '_You must understand that his death_'— he fully expected you to perish from this underhanded attack. If I may interject my own observations at this point, I tested the substance in and around your little wound quite thoroughly and allow me to say, doctor, that you are quite fortunate that I found you when I did."

"Yes…thank you, Holmes," Watson said humbly.

"You're very welcome. Now, this part is key. '_His death, however devastating it is to you, means nothing to me_.' This line could tell us much, if we analyze it correctly. For one, it tells us that he knows me well enough that he also knows _you_, and how much I value you," Holmes said.

"Why thank you. I value you too," Watson said, his tone nearly cynical.

Holmes ignored him. "However, we already know that he knows me from his first line, and we can infer that a man such as Professor Moriarty would never know just a few simple facts about anyone with a potentially large influence on him."

"Now who's flattering himself?"

"Therefore, it has been put in quite carelessly. It reveals a critical fact that he is desperate to ensure we do not know, so desperate that he has become careless." Holmes eyes were bright, and his whole face was lit up. He leaned forward as he spoke. "You, doctor. You hold an important connection to Moriarty, one that you may very well not know of."

Watson stared at his friend. "Holmes…that's preposterous."

"No, Watson, it makes perfect sense! Why else would Moriarty choose you as the first victim? You are his best bargaining chip. You are the most precious to me, and therefore to him as well. Why remove you first from the picture? The answer: your cost is greater than your benefit!"

Slowly Watson nodded. "I see your point, Holmes."

Holmes consulted the letter again. "'_With your wonderful mind_'. Not only does he know who I am, but he knows what I do, correlating with our theory that he knows much about everyone important. We must assume that he is familiar with my entire character and manner while pursuing him, Watson, remember that. The next point of interest is not until this line. '_I welcome your looming attempt at avenging dear Watson's death.'_ He is prepared for me, doctor—me, but not _us_. We must take every precaution to ensure that he does not discover you're alive," Holmes said seriously. "That particular element of surprise could be the difference between the winning or losing of the battle that will decide the war. You seem to be quite the coveted man here, Watson." He skimmed the letter one last time. "The rest of it seems to be fairly simple, meaning just what it appears to mean."

"What of the last bit, Holmes?" Watson asked. "The part about Irene."

Holmes straightened his cuffs—a sure sign, Watson had learned, that he was unhappy. "It could mean any number of things. We will simply have to hope for the best." He looked up at his friend. "I…I really am glad to see you alive and well, Watson," Holmes said hesitantly. "I'm sure not even the heavens know what I…what I'd do without you."

Watson smiled coolly, accustomed to Holmes's roundabout ways. "I love you too, my friend."

The corners of Holmes's mouth twitched and he stood up, pointing the rolled-up letter at Watson like a weapon. "Now get some rest, doctor. I sentence you to three months in bed."

"Try two days, Holmes."

"No, Watson, you must receive your karma."

"Karma is not for you to decide."

"I propose that it should be."

Watson shook his head and smiled. "Goodnight, Holmes."

"More like 'good morning', Watson." He reached the door, then turned around and came back. "Before I leave you in peace, can you give me a description of your assailant?"

"The old man?"

"The young version, if you please."

Watson furrowed his brow. "Tall…thin…pale, with pale blonde hair…."

"What age would you place him at?"

"Surely no older than thirty."

"Excellent! Thank you, doctor. I'll, ah…send Mary in." Holmes grinned and swept out the door.

* * *

**Watson's alive, yaaaaay! Hope you enjoyed it! R&R!**


	5. Holmes's Two Mistakes

**Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Irene Adler, the future Mary Watson, or any other character affiliated with the movie Sherlock Holmes. **

**A/N: I'll give it to you straight. I hate this chapter. I hate it hate it hate it. If I could, I would burn it letter by letter, submerge the pieces in flaming acid, and eat them, never mind what physical (and mental) harm would befall me. But I have to post it, so here. Gaze upon my eternal shame. Take in the OOCness and the nonsensical rambling, the overwhelming pointlessness, the time-waste-trocity.  
****Okay, so maybe it's not _that_ bad, but it took me (obviously) several long days to write it and forever to get through, and I don't work well in those conditions. Bear with me. **

**Oh yeah. There's some Sherene for the people who requested it (Siibi, mainly, but I'm sure you all want it just a little). A rather small amount, but some nonetheless. And sorry to those Watson-lovers...the dear departed doctor isn't in this chapter much, but don't get used to it. ;3**

* * *

"Just a quick walk around the block."

"No."

"Just to the corner market."

"No."

"Outside! Just in the garden!"

"I'm sorry, Watson. No."

Watson groaned, dropping his head back on the back of the chair. "Holmes, please. It's been five days."

"Ah, Watson, you pansy," Holmes chuckled, returning his gaze out the window. "You've been confined to this building five days. I was confined to my mattress six weeks."

"You were injured!" Watson exclaimed.

"And you're dead," Holmes replied, grinning. "The last time I checked, dead men rarely take walks to the corner market. With the exception of Blackwood, of course."

"You're enjoying this too much," Watson grumbled. Crossly, he reached over and took a piece of chocolate from a little box on the nearby table.

"Immensely," Holmes said, scrutinizing the passers-by below. He was trying to locate Moriarty's man, for he knew there must be at least one watching the house. Although he hadn't yet found him, he was sure to keep a devastated expression on his face every time it was visible in the window, such as one who had just lost a close friend might wear. "The funeral was lovely, though, wasn't it?"

Watson laughed, eating another chocolate. "That it was. Mary played quite the distraught wife, didn't she."

"Almost-wife," Holmes corrected, "but yes. A talent for acting."

Suddenly he sat up straight, having caught sight of something outside. "Watson, if you'd really like, you may go outside for a time, provided you remain in the backyard."

Watson blinked. "What?"

"Go, man, run free! Be one with nature, sing with the birds! Go!"

The doctor looked suspicious. "…Holmes…why do you want me out all of the sudden?"

"No time for talking, Watson." Holmes hopped from the windowsill and pulled Watson to his feet. "This is what you wanted, isn't it?" he asked, leading him to the back of the room.

"I'm not sure," Watson said.

"I am. Out the window, Watson."

Watson scoffed. "No!"

"I must insist."

"Why don't I use the back—"

"There's no time to use the back door!" Holmes exclaimed. "You're taking too long, man!" He grabbed Watson by the shoulders and dragged him back a few feet, flinging open the closet door. "Sit tight, Watson." With that, he shoved him in and slammed the closet closed.

"Holmes!" Watson yelled.

"I must ask you to be completely silent, Watson!" Holmes said, locking the door.

"No!"

"Just for a moment! And stop pounding!"

"I will _not_ stop pounding! You _cannot_ lock me in a closet, Holmes!"

"Watson! If you're quiet, I promise I'll bathe!"

The pounding stopped. "…tonight?"

Holmes cleared his throat. "Ah…I was thinking more of the near future."

"Tonight, Holmes."

The sleuth sighed. "Done. Now shhh!"

Watson was quiet and Holmes, peeking out the window for half a second, quickly rushed from the room. After frantically falling down the stairs, he picked himself up, dusted himself off, and scrambled to the front door, hurriedly tucking in his shirt as he flung it open. There stood Irene, hand poised to begin knocking.

Holmes took a long, deep breath, drawing himself up straight, and said, "Ah. Hello, Ms. Adler. Do come in."

Rather surprised, she stepped inside.

"Is this visit for business or pleasure?" Holmes asked, keeping his tone light, although wary of the woman behind him.

"I can barely tell the two apart anymore," Irene sighed.

This did nothing to reassure the detective.

"The dear landlady is away, visiting poor Miss Morstan," Holmes said, leading Irene into the kitchen. "This is, after all, her second beau lost. Tea?"

"No thank you," Irene said, sitting down. "How simply dreadful. That poor woman. She must be devastated."

"Oh yes," Holmes said, taking his own seat. He grabbed a muffin from a plate left on the table and began buttering it. "Simply crushed. In the depths of despair." He took a large bite.

"Hmm. And she's only known him a year or two, while you two have been together much longer than that. You seem very happy for having just lost him. I'm surprised you aren't drunk out of your mind."

Irene smiled sweetly as Holmes choked on his muffin.

"Yes, well, I…I, ah…what about you?" Holmes said.

"Come now, Sherlock, I was more familiar with the man's dog than the man himself."

"Perhaps, but I doubt highly that you were more familiar with my dear departed brother's dog than your late husband, recently deceased as well," Holmes smiled. "Shouldn't you still be mourning? You _were_ in love, weren't you?"

Irene shrugged. "He was seventy-nine."

She wrinkled her nose as muffin spurted everywhere. "_Seventy-nine_? Are you mad, woman?!"

"No, but I suspect he was. He often called me Georgia." She furrowed her brow in an absently thoughtful expression. "Georgia was his cat…."

Holmes patted his chest, clearing his windpipe. "Funny, I always pegged you for a dog person."

"Oh, I love dogs," Irene said brightly. "Large ones. With big teeth."

The sleuth raised his brow, eyes sweeping imperceptibly over her person. "I see." Giving up on the muffin, he set it down and leaned back in his chair, chewing a toothpick. "Incidentally, how did the darling Duke die?"

"Cardiac arrest."

"Well, he certainly isn't the only one with heart problems. Tell me, Ms. Adler, was this a natural heart attack, or was it…orchestrated?"

Her eyes glittered. "Natural."

"I see. And what was stolen?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean. It was a heart attack, not a robbery."

"You know exactly what I mean. Something was taken."

"By who?"

"By you."

She laughed lightly. "It was _my_ property, wasn't it? It still is."

"Is it?" Holmes asked. "That large amount of cash in your sleeve just _begs_ to differ."

Irene paused, considering him. "Excellent deduction, Sherlock. But how do you know it isn't profit from selling what I allegedly stole?"

"Come now, Irene," Holmes said. "There's far too much money for that, and robbing for profit isn't your style. Besides, you said you didn't steal it. Let's not go contradicting our own statements."

"Alright," she said, a smile playing on her lips. "Why don't you outline this whole thing for me, then?"

The corners of Holmes's mouth twitched. "Gladly." He clasped his hands. "You, my dear, are still on your former master's payroll. He wanted something the Duke possessed. He had you get it for him in your signature way, for it offered him greater benefits than simply taking the object. He had come up with quite a plan to remove the Duke from the picture, but timely Mother Nature took care of that for the both of you. You, once again Irene Adler—for the…twenty-eighth time?"

"Twenty-ninth."

"Ah. Yes. I forgot about the werewolf."

"He wasn't a werewolf. He was just hairy."

"That's not what you said before."

She stifled a laugh. "Continue please, Sherlock."

"Yes, of course. You, for the twenty-ninth time Irene Adler, now owned the Duke of Hampshire's lovely estate and all property within. Like a good girl, you handed the sought-after object right to the man holding your leash. He accepted, and also wanted the property. He persuaded you to sell it, for a man like Professor Moriarty," Holmes took note of and took pleasure in observing Irene's twitch at the name, "never leaves his assets in the hands of anyone…let alone you." Holmes clapped loudly. "And with that, he sent you off to begin working your magic upon me once more."

Irene smiled. "Bravo, Sherlock. Would you mind explaining your line of reasoning?"

"Of course."

He stood up and began pacing. "First of all, I suspected the identity of your employer because of the fact that you are still in London. My suspicions were confirmed by your measurable reaction to his name. You remain in the employ of Professor Moriarty. He sent you to court the Duke—because even you have better taste in men than elderly fogies with cats—in order to obtain something from his possessions. In addition to the desired item or items in question, he required a new building...a laboratory, because both Reirdon's and Blackwood's imitation of Reirdon's have been dismantled by law enforcement. He bought the property from you, as is evident by the money in your sleeve. As to why it is in your sleeve and not elsewhere, it is because you are already hiding something in the..." he patted his chest, "...usual place—a bit of jewelry you forgot to return to the professor, I'd wager? But I digress. In conclusion, you have been ordered here to comfort and console me, to rebuild trust and maneuver me ever so gently into Moriarty's net."

Through, Holmes bowed his head like a finished performer and lowered his eyelids, looking at her discreetly through his lashes.

"Your powers of deduction never cease to amaze me, Sherlock," Irene said. "You are correct on every point but two."

Holmes raised his head, looking minorly chagrined. "Oh? What points would those be?"

Irene stood up. "Moriarty didn't send me." In three steps, she crossed the room and took his face in her hands, kissing his mouth. As she pulled back, Holmes gave her a dumbfounded look. She smiled. "Sherlock, I came to see you." Irene kissed him again.

Cautiously, as though afraid she might bite him, Holmes wrapped his arms around her waist. "Irene," he mumbled, "why must you constantly confuse me?"

"I don't think you want to know the answer to that question," she replied, pressing her lips to his chin.

"Excuse me."

The pair whirled to see Watson, leaning against the corner of the wall with his arms folded over his chair and a thoroughly unamused expression behind his moustache.

"I had an extended conversation with the large spiders in the closet, and we agreed you had forgotten me," he said dryly. "So I dug around for your lock-picking equipment and worked at it for a while. I see you didn't quite miss me, however."

Irene smiled sweetly. "Hello, doctor."

"Good afternoon."

"My goodness, after noon already?" Holmes exclaimed. "Why Irene, I think you should be on your way!"

"I rather agree," she said.

"As do I," Watson said with a cynical smile, opening the door for her.

Irene nodded at the doctor. "But not before Sherlock's second mistake."

"What is that?" Holmes asked indignantly.

In a flash, she reached into her dress and retrieved the "jewelry", reaching over and grabbing one of Watson's arms. Snapping one cuff on Holmes's left wrist and the other on Watson's right, she nodded, satisfied.

"And one for the road." She kissed Holmes one last time, before saluting and ducking under their linked arms, hurrying out the door.

Holmes heaved a sigh, staring after her, and then looked over at Watson. The doctor was glaring daggers at him. "What?"

Watson shoved the door closed and thumped him over the head with his un-handcuffed hand. "You, my friend, are a purebred idiot."

* * *

**Congratulations! You have made it to the end! For all those interested, the closet spiders have started an advice column for all those with problems unable to be solved without the assistance of an arachnid. **

**I hate making promises that potentially I can't keep, but the next update should come much sooner than this one did. Again, I apologize for that. And I hope you all profusely enjoy Holmes's brilliant deductions. It is insanely hard for a young, average-brained child such as myself to keep up with this genius man's train of thought. *goes to worship Sir Arthur Conan Doyle again* I also must graciously thank my darling BFF and beta reader, especially on this one. Without her, the world would have one less disoriented-problem. **

**Love your kind reviews! Send more plz! **


	6. Dogs

**Disclaimer: Holmes, Watson, Irene, Gladstone, Nanny, and Moriarty belong to...someone. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle...Guy Ritchie...sombody who isn't me. I do own a ninja hamster, though. He's suicidal. **

**A/N: So much for updating fast this time. :X It's been ten days. I apologize profusely and hope that this chapter makes up for it. It's definitely better than the last one. And Watson is arguably a jerk here at the beginning, but...who can blame him? He's been out of the mortal coil for the past few days. xP Enjoy. **

* * *

"What on _earth_ did you think you were doing?" Watson grunted, clutching the doorframe desperately as Holmes, still cuffed to his friend, half-hung into the closet and rummaged around for something to pick the lock.

"I was attempting to glean information," Holmes replied.

"By eating her face?" Watson said.

"I was glad to see Moriarty hadn't harmed her!"

"You were glad to _taste _that Moriarty hadn't harmed her," the doctor corrected.

Holmes kicked him.

"You're so naive, Holmes," Watson snarled, kicking him back and sending him sprawling into the heaps of junk. Watson was pulled after him with an oath. "Now she knows that I am alive, among other things!"

"What other things?" Holmes said, reaching into a boot and retrieving a small lock-picking instrument. He sat up and began poking at the handcuffs.

"That you are still completely under her power! That Mary is home unprotected! That—"

"That she is trying to help us, Watson?"

"How could she _possibly_ be helping us, Holmes?"

Holmes released Watson's wrist and began working on his own. "She said to me that she likes big dogs with large teeth."

"Oh, well, I'm ever so glad we will know just what to get her for her birthday!" Watson snapped.

"Her dress had dog hair all over it."

"Then I suppose she doesn't need a dog, does she."

"No! Don't you see, Watson?"

"No, Holmes, I don't."

The detective sighed exasperatedly, tossing the handcuffs to the ground and rubbing his freed wrist. "She is warning us, Watson, of the dogs."

Watson flung his arms in the air. "_What dogs_, Holmes?"

"Must I spell out everything?"

"Yes. You must."

"Fine. When Irene arrived, our conversation turned to cats. Please, refrain from asking. At this, she put forth that she likes dogs—big dogs, with big teeth. I have known her a substantial length of time, and never has she mentioned dogs to me until now. What's more, she was covered in dog hair. Therefore, she has been in close contact with the beasts lately."

"Yes, I see it now," Watson said. "I see exactly how this can protect us from Moriarty!"

"You do?"

"No, Holmes, I don't! They are dogs, for heaven's sakes!"

"They are _Moriarty's_ dogs."

"_Where_ did you get that idea?"

"Think, Watson!" Holmes said. "Who would she come in close contact with in recent hours?"

"You."

"Besides me!"

"People in her carriage, people on the street—heavens, Holmes, there could've been dog hair on her bed sheets from the previous tenant!" Watson exclaimed. "You have no way of knowing that they are in any way connected to Moriarty!"

Holmes slammed his palms onto the cluttered ground. "I know they are, Watson! Sometimes I just _know_!"

Watson stood up. "That isn't good enough for me, Holmes."

Holmes rose as well. "Then I'll prove it." He stomped out of the closet.

"Oi! Quit stomping around up there!" Mrs. Hudson shouted up, back from Mary's.

"_You_ quit stomping around, why don't you, _Nanny_!" Holmes yelled, stamping on the ground as hard as possible.

"Holmes." Watson took Holmes by the shoulders and turned him around.

"What do _you_ want, doctor?" Holmes said savagely.

"You need to calm down," Watson said. "We all do. We cannot allow the situation to affect us like this." He looked Holmes sternly in the eye, until the detective's shoulders became less rigid. "Good. Now apologize to Mrs. Hudson."

Holmes sighed. "I apologize, Nanny. I won't stomp," he called.

"Good!"

Sherlock clenched his teeth, making a face at the door. "Easy, Holmes," Watson said. "I apologize as well."

He refocused his attention to his friend. "For what?"

"For being so adamantly against you. You are almost always correct, and I trust you. I've just been penned up in here too long, and I'm worried for Mary's safety, and Mrs. Hudson's, and you and I's, and now we've lost our advantage over Moriarty…." Watson sighed and squeezed Holmes's shoulder. "And I'm sorry for kicking you."

"Oh, that's alright, I kicked you first," Holmes said. "But don't fret about our advantage, Watson. True, we have lost the element of surprise, but we have gained in other areas. Come."

Holmes marched to his chemical-laden desk and Watson followed curiously. "Oh, and if you are so worried about Mary, we can bring her here to stay. Or we may even send her to Mycroft's home in the country, away from all the action."

"Thank you, Holmes. I'd like to have her here," Watson said humbly.

"Excellent," Holmes said, taking a seat. "Pull up that stool, Watson, and watch carefully." He looked down at his own chest and delicately plucked a shaggy gray hair from his shirt. "These dogs may tell us much more than even Irene considered."

Watson watched interestedly as Holmes performed various tests upon the hair, occasionally taking another piece from his clothing when the current specimen became too ravaged to use. After a good fifteen minutes, Holmes blew out his last match and turned to Watson with a satisfied expression.

"Well, that was informative."

"Really?" Watson said. "Do share."

Holmes stood up. "The hairs are coarse and long, belonging to some sort of hound, most likely of the Irish wolf variety. There were specimens from at least three individual dogs." He shrugged off his suspenders, pants immediately sagging, and pulled off his shirt.

"…Holmes? What are you doing?"

"However, each of them held traces of three substances. First was mud, a very sandy type of mud found in the Hampshire area. Therefore we can confirm that the hounds are, at the very least, near the property of the Duke. Secondly, they had an unmistakable residue of sulfuric acid, strengthening the theory of Moriarty's use of the estate as a laboratory, and thirdly, microscopic bits of cotton. I'm not yet certain of the latter's use, but I intend to find out. 'Scuse me, Watson." Holmes dropped his pants.

Watson rubbed his forehead. "You have no idea how glad I am to see you're wearing underwear today."

"I wore them yesterday too," Holmes said defensively.

"What do you know, a new record!"

"You're getting off the subject, Watson." Holmes returned to the closet and selected a dark, dusty pair of suit pants. "Although the dogs all have come in contact with these three materials, there is a particular one they have _not_, and this is the one that proves my argument. On my clothing I gathered a hair from Ms. Adler, and in testing it, discovered that it possessed a very fine layer of sodium."

"Salt?"

"Yes, doctor, salt. Irene has very recently been in the briny sea air of the waterfront, while the dogs have not." Holmes pulled on the pants as well as a white shirt and then a waistcoat.

"So what have the hairs told us?"

"Five main points. Firstly, Moriarty is doing something involving science and chemistry—such lethal weapons in this age. Secondly, he has set up a laboratory in the former residence of the Duke of Hampshire. Thirdly, he owns large dogs that we must be wary of if ever we go a-knocking. Fourthly, Irene is staying near the seaside, a fact that may prove useful at a later date, and fifthly, she is not entirely against us."

Watson sighed, but decided he had stomped on Holmes's dedicated heart enough for the time being. "What are you doing, old boy?"

"What I do best, Watson. Disappearing." Holmes applied a stylish fake moustache to his upper lip. "How is this, doctor?"

"Eh." Watson shook his head. "Too dark."

"Easily repaired." Holmes crossed the room to the fireplace, grabbing a fistful of ashes and scrubbing it through his hair like shampoo.

"Oh Holmes," Watson groaned. "Do you know how hard it'll be to get that out? You're going to need two baths now."

"The deal was one," Holmes said.

"Fine, one. But that all had better come out and I am _not_ coming to help you."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Holmes said haughtily.

"Where are you going? Would you like me to accompany you?"

Holmes didn't miss the familiar not of eagerness in Watson's voice. He had the feeling it was a bad idea, but—perhaps selfishly—he dearly wanted Watson along…after all, the wedding was drawing ever closer. Holmes would take whatever he could get. "Why not? We're going to get the lay of the land about the Duke's place."

Immediately Watson began coercing him out of the idea. "Holmes, are you sure that's wise?"

"Watson, I have never been wise in my life."

"What about the dogs?"

"Let us take Gladstone," Holmes chuckled. "I'm sure he'll make short work of those big puppies."

"They'll eat him like a crumpet!"

Holmes grinned at Watson's absolutely outraged expression. "Only joking, doctor."

Watson sighed. "Holmes, there are certain things I think take priority over infiltrating the enemy's fortress."

"Oh? Like what?"

"The young man who poisoned me. Surely his connection with Moriarty is important."

"Hmm. You may be right, doctor."

"And the motivation for assassinating me. You said I had a connection with Moriarty."

"Personally, Watson, I believe that latter should be _your_ job."

Watson blinked. "What?"

"Who better knows your connections than you?"

The doctor sighed. "Alright. I'll…I'll investigate."

"That's the spirit, old boy."

"And what will you do?"

Holmes pulled on a pair of dealer's armbands. "Well, I hate to waste a perfectly good disguise." Clearing his throat, he drew himself to his full height and marched out the door. "Happy connection hunting, Watson!"

* * *

**One thing before all y'all go reporting me to the cliche police. I know crumpets are an awful stereotype, but wouldn't you just love to see Watson say that? Crumpet. Hah. :3 R&R!**


	7. Enter Sherlock Holmes

**Disclaimer: Holmes, Watson, Mrs. Hudson, Gladstone, and Moriarty belong to Guy Ritchie. I'm more like Girl Poorie. However, I do own all the other characters...despite the fact that only one of them has any importance to this story. And I'm not sure just who Gladstone's mother belongs to...Watson and I may be working out joint custody. **

**A/N: I apologize. I apologize, apologize, and apologize. It's been a busy end to the school year and I had no time to update. But here it is, and although I've been saying this for the last two or three chapters...the next one will be up sooner. Yeah. I really hope someone still believes that. xD And I also apologize for all the names here. Hopefully you don't get too confused. Enjoy the show!**

* * *

Holmes marched down the street with his chin at a regal angle. Nodding to a group of ladies on the corner, he sauntered through a pair of double doors and into the Duke-Matthias Theatre. Although slightly in the mood for a play, he told himself off and focused on the real reason he was here.

_A man who can so skillfully go from old to young must be talented with makeup and costumes,_ Holmes thought. _Therefore he most likely is associated with the theater, and this is the best in town._

He walked authoritatively into the theatre, making his way down the edge of the big hall. With an air of total supposed-to-be-there-ness, Holmes entered the orchestra pit. He dodged the timpani and narrowly avoided knocking over a cello, finally reaching the door eventually leading backstage. Along that hallway were dressing rooms.

The hall was cool, dimly lit, and deserted. A list hung on the wall, displaying the room number and role in the play of each actor or actress. Holmes took the liberty of borrowing it, scanning down the list and mentally ruling out useless names.

_Mercy Williams, no. Anne Fredrick, no. Lulu Watson—poor girl, left her father and stepmother to pursue the acting career she'd always dreamed of, changing her first name and—oh, stop deducing, Sherlock. You've no time for that. _

Holmes cleared his throat and with nothing more than a nonchalant, _I wonder if she's related to the doctor,_ continued his investigating. Quickly he eliminated the women and began sifting through the men.

_Albert Edwards, playing Grandfather Farnes. No. Francis Jones, playing Little Georgie. I'm afraid not. Ambrose Isaiah Bullen. No, simply because that is too unfortunate a name to bestow upon anyone with any influence whatsoever. Ah, see, he plays Slain Guard #3. _

Finally, one way or another, Holmes had narrowed the list down to two potential names—Alonzo Green and Amadeus Kelly. Both seemed equally likely candidates for a tall, pale young man who poked doctors with pins for a hobby, and both had respectable roles in the play. The former was one of the lead characters, Thomas Beechworth, and the latter another important role—Prince Raymond Johnston.

Clearly Holmes would have to do some hands-on investigation.

The sleuth retrieved his pocket watch. The show was to start in less than two minutes. Holmes sighed.

It looked as though he would need a _second_ disguise.

By the time Holmes was satisfied with himself, the first act was all but finished. However, this didn't worry him too much, and he calmly proceeded up the hallway until he was standing in the dark, eerie world of ropes and sets behind the back curtain. He could hear applause from the audience.

_Act One has ended, and Act Two is about to begin. Enter Sherlock Holmes. _

At this point, Holmes had a choice. Did he join the cast subtly, or did he make an entrance? The decision was simple.

Holmes peered at the stage from behind the curtain. The play had resumed, and a group of villagers was gathered around a flimsy tower. Beechworth, played by Green, was among them, while the prince, played by Kelly, was atop the tower. There was only one small problem.

Both were tall, thin, young, pale, and neither had blonde hair.

Holmes stood up straight, adjusting his costume one last time. He inhaled, exhaled, drew his sword, and paraded onto the stage.

"Now see here!" he shouted. Immediately all heads turned towards him, staring at the man in a cape, crown, and white facial hair, flaunting a blade like a mad military general. "This is quite unnecessary, quite unnecessary indeed! Goodness, Raymond, my boy! This cannot be how you run your country!"

The cast was unsure of how to react, and even the audience was watching uncertainly. However, this failed to faze Holmes.

"Look at you! All of you! Why, I'm shocked! Appalled! Horrific, this is, horrific!" Holmes stormed around the stage, waving his sword madly. He whirled, glaring at the villagers, who took a collective step backwards. "You." Holmes pointed his blade at Green. "What is your role in this town, man?"

"I'm the b-blacksmith, sir."

"Ah, yes, blacksmith, yes. Jolly good." Holmes patted the side of the man's face, then snuck a glance at his hand.

_Not a trace of powder. His hair is naturally black. Then Watson's assailant must be the—_

There was a thud, a few footsteps, and a sort of 'shwing'. Holmes turned around and was met with the point of a sword in his face.

–_prince. _

"Never fear, my subjects," said Amadeus Kelly with a thin smile. "I shall dispatch this troublemaker in the blink of an eye."

"Oh, there is no need for that," Holmes said quickly. "I was just on my way, my Prince." He made a move as if to leave and was rewarded with a swift slice to the arm. Holmes grimaced in pain and the audience gasped as real blood was drawn.

"Not another word, ruffian. You shall need a…doctor, when I finish with you."

"Well then isn't it lucky I have one? Really, I'm surprised you didn't rid the world of him first," Holmes said innocently.

The sleuth noted the tic in the man's forehead. He inhaled slowly, and chuckled. "My dear Holmes," Amadeus said softly, smiling, "you are most definitely between a rock and a hard place."

"I beg to differ," Holmes said. "It seems to me to be more like a sword and a convenient audience."

"Convenient? How so?"

Without replying, Holmes flung his sword high towards the ceiling and dove off the stage, into the crowd, yelling, "FOR THE LOVE OF GLADSTONE'S MOTHER!" The audience erupted into shrieks and shouts as the sleuth picked himself up off the laps of three or four people, leaping to the ground and tearing up the aisle.

"Holmes!" Amadeus snarled under his breath.

The sleuth waved over his shoulder as he exited the theatre, shedding crown, cape, and beard as he went.

* * *

"Here, doctor," Nanny said, setting a steaming mug of hot chocolate on the table.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Watson said absently, rifling through the enormous stack of papers before him. A connection, Holmes had said. A connection between himself and Moriarty.

The doctor had spent most of the last two and a half hours searching for that connection—the first hour taken up only by gathering every scrap of paper with any sort of information on it he possessed. Watson himself was rather neat, but when living with Holmes, things were bound to be misplaced.

Watson sighed dejectedly. "This is taking a lifetime. Several lifetimes." He grabbed his mug and took a large gulp of cocoa, promptly choking on the boiling liquid and spewing it everywhere.

"Oh, dear me, doctor," Mrs. Hudson groaned. "You've gotten hot cocoa everywhere."

"Sorry, Nanny," Watson said hoarsely, tonsils burning.

"You're fine, you're fine." Mrs. Hudson quickly began cleaning up the mess. "Ohh, your papers got wet."

"That's alright," the doctor mumbled.

"No, no, I'll dry them out for you," she said reassuringly. Mrs. Hudson began gathering up papers, while Watson gingerly massaged his throat.

Then something caught his eye. "Wait, wait! Mrs. Hudson, put that last one back."

Puzzled, Mrs. Hudson replaced the paper. "Is it the one you're looking for, doctor?"

Watson scanned the document, growing more excited with every word. "I believe it is, Nanny."

* * *

"One of you has proved yourself an even stronger asset…and the other has suffered a rather drastic failure."

"Yes, sir," Irene murmured.

"Yes, sir," Amadeus echoed.

The contours of the man in the armchair's face were thrown into shadow by the light from the flickering fireplace. "I gave you a simple job, Amadeus. A simple, simple job. Yet somehow, you failed at eliminating Dr. Watson."

Amadeus bit his tongue, holding back his explanation that it wasn't his fault, it was Holmes and he had done exactly what he was supposed to. The professor didn't accept excuses, no matter how truthful they may be.

As though he could read his mind, these were the next words from the professor's mouth. "Despite Mr. Holmes's actions, you should have ensured that the doctor did not get up from that pavement—of his own will or otherwise."

"Yes, sir," Amadeus said quietly.

"On the other hand. You have proved your worth yet again, Irene," rasped the professor. "By bringing me the news of Amadeus's failure, you have nullified what may have been Mr. Holmes's greatest advantage. For that you are invaluable, for a short while longer."

She nodded humbly. "Thank you, professor."

Professor Moriarty shifted in his chair. "Now, we must proceed. I made Holmes a promise, did I not?

"One of his companions does not have long to live."

* * *

**DUN DUN DUN. Moriarty's a scary dude. R&R!**


	8. The Connection

**Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, and Professor Moriarty do not belong to me. And...neither does the Bible. Do I have to say that? I think everyone knows that...**

**A/N: I'm sure you're all as tired of the apologies as I am, but this time karma whacked me over the head with a metal bat for wasting so much time between updates: I've had no internet for the past week and a half. So I wrote this chapter and couldn't post, and was depressed. As for the reason the updating has been so erratic, I really have no plot for this story. And usually that doesn't go well with me...or anyone, I suppose. I'm working on it though and it's getting better, so let's hope karma has had its fill and I can get things under control. I thank you all for bearing with me on this - you're awesome. Now enough of me, on with the show!**

* * *

The clock was chiming a quarter past two in the morning, and Watson was still sitting at the kitchen table. After fighting sleep for the past three hours, his head had finally dropped onto his chocolatey stack of papers and he was on the verge of blissful, peaceful sleep.

And then Holmes banged the door open and marched in. "Good morning, doctor."

Watson's head flew up, sending papers drifting to the ground. "Oh…hello, Holmes." He smacked his lips. "Back so soon?"

"Yes. I apologize for the delay; I had a run-in with a showgirl, a runaway cow, and a fruit cart. What that vendor was doing out and about at this late hour I shall never know." Holmes grabbed Watson's hot chocolate mug and threw his head back, letting the last five drops fall into his mouth. "You wouldn't have a roll of gauze or a bottle of brandy on you, eh?"

"No, but I do have a connection to Professor—why do you need gauze?"

At this news, Holmes promptly forgot all his other pressing needs—including the brandy. "A connection? Really? What is it?"

"Holmes, you're bleeding!"

"It's just a little scratch, he only nicked the artery. What connection?"

"You need a doctor," Watson said.

"Well then it's lucky I live with one, isn't it. I repeat, _what connection_?"

Watson stood up. "Sit down and I'll tell you while I treat you."

Absentmindedly, Holmes took Watson's chair and picked up the paper on the top of the stack. "Is this it?" he murmured.

"Yes. Do you mind if I rip your sleeve, or would you rather take the whole shirt off?"

"Rip it, I'm busy. No, don't, it's my favorite. Wait, yes, do. My birthday is this month. I want a new one."

"Are you sure?"

"No, I'm busy."

Watson snorted and tore the sleeve. "Agh, Holmes. This looks painful. What happened?"

"I went to the theater."

"And there was audience participation?"

"No. I joined the cast."

"You joined the—Holmes."

"It was a last-minute addition. Now hush, I'm trying to read."

The cocoa-stained paper was a patient record, listing information about the visit and the patient himself. Holmes read it under his breath. "Name, Jacob Moriarty. Age fifty-seven. Five feet, eleven inches tall, 182 pounds."

"Holmes, lift up your arm." The sleuth did so. "No, your other arm."

"Stop bothering me, Watson. Profession, dean. Aha—can be interpreted as either an academic or a cleric, very clever. And what was wrong with him, I wonder…goodness, Watson, you are terribly thorough. I could care less about his daily diet, I want to know why he came to see you!"

"You know, Holmes, you're overdue for a physical. What say we just get one done now?"

"I loathe physicals."

"Excellent. I'll get my medical bag."

Holmes skimmed uninterestedly through the details of Jacob Moriarty's eating habits, sleeping habits, and physical activity, eyes finally resting on the box labeled 'symptoms'. "Aha."

"Alright, Holmes, we'll start with your heart rate."

"'Chest pains, chills, weight loss, coughing up blood'. Sounds like he's got a difficult little life, doesn't—good heavens, Watson, what on earth are you putting down my shirt?"

"It's a stethoscope, Holmes."

"It's cold!"

"Breathe in and out. No, no, slower. In…out. No, Holmes, you're doing this wrong."

"Watson, I do not care."

"Breathe in and hold it. Good. Now let it out…let it out, Holmes. Let it out, fool, you can breathe again!"

Absently, Holmes exhaled. "So he had an array of unpleasant symptoms. What could that mean? Let us pursue this further…."

"Open your mouth, Holmes."

"Aah."

Watson leaned over at an awkward angle and pushed Holmes's tongue down with a tongue depressor. "Well, your throat is healthy."

"Echsallhant."

"Holmes, you just sprayed me with spit."

"Echsallhant."

Watson shook his head, wrinkling his nose as he wiped water from his face. "Now I'm going to poke about in your ears. Don't throw a fit like you always do."

"Watson, I never throw—eeh, get out of there!" Holmes cringed sharply.

"That, my friend, is exactly what I told you not to do."

"I am trying to discover more about my nemesis and you are stabbing my brain through my ears!"

"Believe me, it's hard to do. I can barely find the thing."

"Ahaha." Holmes skimmed through the specifics of Moriarty's symptoms, looking for Watson's diagnosis. When he found it, he furrowed his brow. "'Tuberculosis.'" The sleuth looked up. "Moriarty has tuberculosis?"

Watson nodded. "It's killing him, and he knows it."

Holmes stared blankly at the table, trying to process this. "Watson…this is an enormous advantage…." He looked up. "You realize that, don't you?"

The doctor nodded again, a somewhat sad expression on his face. "Still…it doesn't quite seem fair, does it."

Holmes set the paper down, setting his jaw. "I don't know what you're talking about, Watson. But I commend you on your discovery. A pitifully small number of people know that the apostle James in the Bible was truthfully named Jacob—a perfect disguise for the professor. Excellent work, doctor, and thank you for bandaging me up. Alas, you will have to finish the physical tomorrow, for I am quite fatigued and I suggest we both rest." Holmes stood up. "Goodnight, Watson. Sleep well."

With that, Holmes left Watson standing alone in the kitchen.

* * *

**I do not have tuberculosis, nor do I know anyone that does. So this was all based off research done helpfully by disoriented-problem, again as I had no internet. And yes, there really was no apostle named James, it was really Jacob. King James just had some kiss-up translators. R&R! **


	9. Bees

**Disclaimer: Holmes, Watson, Mrs. Hudson, and anyone or anything else associated with the 2009 version of Sherlock Holmes do not belong to me. **

**A/N: I'm not a gardener. That's all the more I have to say on this matter. **

* * *

Despite having told Watson that he was going to bed, Holmes knew sleep would be nearly impossible to achieve. He sat in his chair in front of the fire, flickering flame reflecting in his eyes, rarely moving except to stir the coals around when they became too dim for his liking. Holmes had plenty on his mind and was content to sit and mull it all over as the clock ticked out three o'clock…four o'clock…four-thirty…five o'clock…six…six-forty-five….

Seven passed, and Holmes barely heard the chime. It was the growling of his stomach that finally alerted him to the time. Dazed, he looked up and was surprised to find sunlight pushing at the seams of his drawn curtains.

"I wonder what's for breakfast…" he murmured, heaving his body up from the chair and staggering down the stairs.

To his surprise, the kitchen was empty of doctors. Nanny was just setting the last dishes on the table. She looked up as he walked in. "Oh, good morning. Sleep well?"

"Not at all. Ah…where's Watson?"

"Still in bed," Mrs. Hudson answered. "The poor dear doesn't have the stamina you do, I'm afraid."

Holmes chuckled to himself and sat down. "Oo, muffins."

Mrs. Hudson noticed his arm. "Good heavens! What happened?"

"I attempted theater," he replied.

She shook her head. "Gracious, Holmes. Can't you do anything without wounding yourself?"

"Of course," he said indignantly, grabbing a muffin. "Ah! Hot!"

"See what I mean?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Holmes grumbled. "Does the doctor have anything planned for today?"

"Not that I know of," Mrs. Hudson replied.

"Wonderful. I would like to go out to the Duke's estate," Holmes said.

"The Duke?"

"Of Hampshire."

"You're not getting involved with that, are you?"

"But of course."

She sighed. "Well I want no part of it. You may keep me gladly in the dark."

"Naturally."

"Spoon, Holmes."

He held one up and she examined her reflection, pushing a few stray hairs behind her ear. "Thank you, dear. I think I'll go tend to the garden for a bit. Let me know when Watson wakes up, will you?"

"Sure," he murmured, utilizing Mrs. Hudson's spoon-mirror to stir his porridge as he studied Moriarty's patient record for the hundredth time.

The landlady made her way down the hall to the back door, stepping out into the yard. She took a deep breath of cool morning air and smiled, taking her gloves and trowel and small gardening rake from the basket beside the door.

Mrs. Hudson hadn't been working for more than ten minutes when she heard a knock. Looking up, she found a young, blonde woman she didn't know standing a few feet away, rapping on the fence to get her attention. She smiled. "I apologize for intruding, but I was walking by and noticed your gate was open. I came to shut it and I heard you humming."

"Oh no, dear, it's quite alright. Just allow me to dust myself off." She stood and brushed the dirt from her hands.

"This is lovely," the woman said. "Did you plant all of this?"

"Yes, I run the boardinghouse, and in my spare time, I come back here," Mrs. Hudson said.

"Well you must be a fantastic gardener," she said. "I like flowers myself. Although I've never seen that kind before." She pointed to a plant with purple blossoms.

"Oh, that's purple coneflower," Mrs. Hudson said, leading the girl to the back of the garden. "It needs quite a bit of sun and I wasn't sure it would survive, but we've had so little rain lately it has grown just fine."

"It's beautiful," the woman remarked.

"Thank you. Unfortunately, the bees appreciate it a little too much."

"Where did you get it? I'd like to try planting some."

Mrs. Hudson bent over the plant, pulling off a few wilted flowers. "I have a cousin who lives in Italy, and she grows this in her garden. If you'd like I could have her send me—ouch!"

"What's wrong?" the woman asked, concerned.

"Oh, just a bee sting," Mrs. Hudson smiled. "Speak of the devil and…and…." She swayed slightly, putting her hand to her head. "Oh dear…."

"What's wrong?" the girl repeated. "Are you alright?"

"No, I don't…." Without warning, the landlady collapsed on the ground. She was faintly aware of the girl saying she would get help, before her vision tunneled and she weakly closed her eyes.

"You're up early," Watson mumbled, stumbling into the kitchen and seeing Holmes.

"I was never down," he replied.

"Where's Mrs. Hudson?"

"Out gardening. But she set out breakfast, and that's all that matters, eh?"

"I wanted to tell her good morning," the doctor slurred as he dropped heavily into a chair.

"I'm supposed to tell her you're up anyway," Holmes said. "I'll pass it along." He stood up, thrusting Moriarty's record in Watson's face. "Guard this with your life."

"Um."

"Thank you, Watson." With that, Holmes strode outside.

He knew something was amiss when he didn't immediately see Nanny. Once he caught sight of her, however, Holmes pieced together what had happened in about ten seconds and ran to her side.

She was unconscious, and she wasn't breathing.

"_Watson_!"

* * *

**Oh snap, Mrs. Hudson, oh snap! Cliffhangers are awesome, aren't they? R&R!**


	10. The Breaking Point

**Disclaimer: None of the characters from Sherlock Holmes belong to me. Dr. Harvey does, though. You want an appointment, you schedule through me. GOT IT? **

**A/N: I apologize for the delay. It's been a crazy first week of school and I just now got around to sticking this up. But it's a good chapter, I think, so be happy. Even if it isn't...really...happy. **

* * *

Creak.

Pause.

Creak.

Pause.

Creak.

Pause.

Creak.

"Holmes, stop pacing," Watson muttered.

Creak.

Watson sighed and put his hand over his eyes.

"I hardly think you should worry about an obnoxious noise at a time like this." Holmes jabbed his finger at the door across from Watson. "Mrs. Hudson is in there on her deathbed."

"I'm well aware," Watson said. He ran a hand through his hair. "Doctor Harvey is good with poisons. He'll…he'll take care of her."

The bitterness in his voice was plain. Though Watson held the reputation as one of the best doctors and surgeons in London, his medical experience with poisons wasn't nearly enough to deal with this. Therefore, their unfortunate landlady had been turned over to a colleague more skilled in the area. He had barely arrived in time. It had been a close call—the verdict was still undecided as to whether or not Mrs. Hudson would pull through. Holmes could see all too clearly that Watson was blaming himself for being unable to offer immediate aid.

He stared at Watson for a moment, before sighing and leaving the hole he was wearing into the carpet. He leaned against the mantle of the lit fireplace.

Something had to be said, anything, to break the silence. "You contacted Mycroft?" Watson asked, although he already knew the answer.

"Yes. He was planning on taking a holiday in Spain anyway."

Watson clasped his hands together and leaned forward, looking blankly at the floor. "Mary has gone to her cousin's home in Norway…her parents have gone to France…."

The sleuth said nothing.

Slowly Watson looked up. "And…what of Miss Ad—"

"I'm sure she can take care of herself," Holmes said briskly. "After all…she placed herself in this position…the consequences are hers to bear, not…not anyone else's…."

Doubtfully, Watson wondered how long Holmes would keep that viewpoint.

Minutes passed before either of them spoke again. When Holmes did say something, Watson didn't know what he was talking about.

"It was her, you know."

The doctor didn't understand. "…what?"

"The woman. In the garden. The one who…who poisoned Nanny. Irene."

Watson was taken aback and sat up straight. "But…but she rode here with us! She was in the carriage, sitting right next to me!"

"Yes."

Suddenly something struck Watson. He stared at Holmes. "You knew."

Holmes avoided his gaze. "Yes."

"You knew who she was, you…you knew what she _did_! And you did nothing?"

Holmes replied with a very quiet, "No."

Watson could feel the heat of anger rising to his face. "She's working with Moriarty! She helped him try to kill me! Because of her, Mrs. Hudson may die! And you _let her go_?"

The sleuth was melancholy. "Watson, please…what choice did I have—"

The doctor grabbed Holmes's collar and yanked him up. "You had a choice, Holmes. You had _hundreds_ of choices, and all of them better than that one!"

Holmes looked at his friend with wide eyes. "You don't know what it's like, Watson—"

"I don't care what it's like! You're a genius, Holmes, and you wittingly allow yourself to be manipulated by this _snake_ of a woman—"

"She's not a snake," Holmes interjected.

"She is a terrible person!" Watson retorted. "Who does terrible things!"

"Moriarty would kill her if she—"

"Holmes, listen to yourself! You _just_ said she got herself into this, and that she could get herself out! Now you're making excuses for her? You're defending her, for—"

Holmes grabbed the doctor's arm. "Let go of me, Watson. I have things figured out," he said icily.

"Oh do you? From where I'm standing, it looks as though you have no idea what's going on! You don't know anything, Holmes! You haven't a clue what to do, yet you're too proud to admit it!" Watson shouted. "You're an arrogant, selfish _child_ who expects everyone to bend to your will just because you—"

"Watson!" Holmes snarled. "I can do this! I can stop him, I only need—"

"Need what, Holmes, more time? How much more time? Enough for him to murder the rest of us?" Watson shoved Holmes away. "You and I both know that he can find them, no matter how far away they go. You think country borders and oceans matter to him?"

"I'm only asking you to trust me, Watson," Holmes said. "He won't get to them. I can prevent it, I—"

"How, Holmes? How are you going to prevent it? You're not a miracle worker!"

"I never said I was!"

"You seem to think you are! The great Sherlock Holmes, the smartest man in the world, practically invincible!"

"I'm not invincible, Watson!"

"And neither am I! Neither is Mycroft, nor Mrs. Hudson!" Watson clenched his fists. "We are not pawns, Holmes. We are _people_. We can be _killed_. And no one, not even you, can bring us back. You have no right to risk our lives this way."

Holmes looked at Watson with a confused mixture of anger and helplessness on his face. "Watson…it's the only way."

The doctor laughed coldly. "Fine, Holmes. Do what you want. You would anyway. But I will tell you right now—if Mary dies, if she is killed because of you…you will wish Moriarty's man had succeeded."

A chill went down Holmes's spine at the look on Watson's face. "So that's it, then? That's your decision?"

Watson turned around and opened the door.

"Yes."

Holmes flinched as the door slammed behind the doctor. Feeling hollow, he walked numbly towards the chair Watson had left vacant. The same spot on the floor creaked as he walked over it and he winced as though he'd been stabbed.

Silently, Holmes sank into the chair.

A few minutes later, the door across the room opened. Doctor Arthur Harvey, a man with salt-and-pepper hair and laugh lines on his face, stood in the doorway.

"She'll be weak for some time," he said, "but she'll pull through."

Holmes breathed a sigh of relief and buried his face in his hands.

Harvey looked around the room. "Where's Doctor Watson?"

The sleuth closed his eyes and clenched his fists, leaning forward and setting them on the arms of the chair. "He…he left."

"Oh. Will he be returning anytime soon?"

Holmes opened his eyes and stared at the carpet.

"No. No, I…I don't think he will."

* * *

**Cliffhangers. They may very well be my specialty. R&R—I'm just dying to get chewed out for this one. ;D**


	11. Lestrade Pays a Visit

**Disclaimer: None of the characters from Sherlock Holmes belong to me. Amadeus, however, is locked in a little box under my bed. And I am the only one with a key. ;D**

**A/N: For all the wait, this chapter's pretty good, if I do say so myself. I felt like I got Holmes in good character and Moriarty's good too and it's just all good. So enjoy! **

* * *

Staccato footsteps echoed loudly as Amadeus strode down the hallway. He looked over his shoulder. "Faster, woman!"

Irene shot him a glare. "You try running in heels and a hoop skirt."

"You think he'll accept that as an excuse?" Amadeus snapped.

He had a point, unfortunately. Irene picked up the pace.

The two skidded to a halt at the end of the corridor and paused for half a second to catch their breath. Then, very calm and composed, they twisted the ornate doorknob and stepped inside.

The room was so hot it was nearly unbearable, all windows shut and locked tight and the fire always blazing. As the door closed behind them, the last channel of cooler air was blocked off and the heat surrounded the two in the most uncomfortable way. They exchanged miserable glances and padded quietly to the chair in front of the fireplace.

Moriarty was thoughtfully turning the brittle pages of a dictionary, no doubt taken from one of the shelves across the room. Briefly Irene wondered who had gotten it for him—she had never seen him leave his chair since they had arrived here.

The silence was at least, if not more, stifling than the heat, but neither dared speak. For all their rushing, it didn't seem as though much was happening. Yet finally, Moriarty stopped fingering through the pages of the dictionary, although he still did not look at them.

"You are late," he said. Both quickly offered their apologies.

Again the room was silent. Amadeus shifted awkwardly and Irene gave him a reproachful look. Her head snapped back immediately though, as the professor spoke again.

"The landlady. She is dead?"

Irene braced herself. "No, sir."

She tensed as he looked up, turning his cold, colorless eyes on her. "Why not?" he asked slowly.

Irene swallowed. "She received medical attention before the poison could finish its work, sir."

"Indeed." Moriarty continued to stare unblinkingly. His range of vision seemed to widen, and suddenly Amadeus too was included in his gaze. "Somehow, you both have failed me. How is this possible?"

Amadeus mumbled while Irene shook her head.

Professor Moriarty's eyes wandered to the fireplace. They lit orange until he closed them, sighing. "Perhaps I am at fault…for placing such trust in you." He sighed again and pressed his fingertips together. "The next target is Doctor Watson's wife." Moriarty regarded Irene out of the corner of his eye. "You have connections in Norway, do you not?"

"Yes sir."

Without warning, Moriarty exploded into a fit of harsh coughing. Hunched over, his shoulders shook, tears streaming from his eyes. A minute later the fit passed and he sat up, wiping the water from his cheeks.

"Ensure that she has been disposed of within forty-eight hours. If this is not done, you will take her place. Am I making myself clear?" he said hoarsely.

Irene lifted her chin, a proudly determined look in her eye. "Yes, sir." Amadeus stared at her.

Moriarty leaned back in his chair, still attempting to catch his breath. "Away with you. Both of you."

The two of them hurried out of the stifling room.

* * *

Holmes's living space was a paradise for the fly drifting lazily around. It paused for a minute on the desk, where half a slice of toast had been left, then soared across the room and landed on a chemical stain on the wall. After determining that it didn't taste nearly as good as it smelled, the fly buzzed into the air and finally came to rest on Holmes's forehead.

Without warning, the stationary hand on the arm of the chair leapt into action and Holmes smacked himself in the face.

Slowly he opened his eyes and examined the fly now smeared all over his palm. Pursing his lips, he wiped the guts on the velvet side of the armchair and drew his sleeve across his brow to remove any lingering innards. Letting his arm limply drop, Holmes closed his eyes again and heaved a mighty sigh.

Suddenly there was a loud bang from the street. Immediately Holmes was on his feet, plunging his hands into his shirt and searching for the gun he kept on his stomach. Finally he found it and pulled it out after a few attempts, staggering over and throwing up the window. His eyes searched the street below for a body.

They found none. In fact, the source of the noise hadn't been a gun at all—simply a large trunk tipping off the end of a cart and breaking on the ground.

Holmes sighed again and reluctantly put the gun away.

His sudden fit of movement had awoken his stomach, which was now growling loudly. He hadn't eaten for three days, and right on schedule, his body was complaining. But Holmes had more important things to do than eat.

Having stolen a good fifteen minutes of light sleep, he felt well-rested and re-energized—or so he told himself, as he resumed pacing relentlessly across the floor.

The sleuth knew what he had to do. It was obvious. It had been obvious since this case began. He had to go to the Duke of Hampshire's estate. There was no other option, and there never had been. Holmes had known this all along. If only Watson had listened to him, had agreed to go to the estate and hadn't argued, none of this would have happened.

So furious that he stopped his pacing, Holmes pushed away the guilty stab of pain that came with the thought of Watson. The image of his friend's face before he left floated before Holmes's eyes, his expression still as filled with unbridled anger as it had been three days ago. It bordered on hatred.

_Oh stop_, Holmes thoughts scolded. _Watson doesn't hate you._

But his friends were being attacked.

_You're his friend too._

But _he_ had been attacked.

_But you saved him._

But it was Holmes's fault he had been attacked in the first place.

_Watson knows you're dangerous company._

Yes…and he was going to leave….

Holmes's brain had no reply to this. It was true, Watson was leaving, and Holmes didn't like it. He had wished for anything and everything to happen to make his friend stay. But this…Holmes didn't want this.

He squeezed his temples. He had to go to the estate. But did he dare go without Watson? It would be twice as dangerous. Despite the fact that he used to go on his escapades alone, he had disliked doing so since he had met the doctor. Having someone to cover his back, someone to talk a bit of sense into him now and again, had made all the difference in the world.

He would just have to readjust to working alone. After all, he would've had to sooner or later.

In two minutes, Holmes was dressed in worn boots, fraying pants, and a severely patched coat. The moustache he was attempting to stick to his upper lip was giving him trouble; he was still fiddling with it as he walked into the kitchen.

"Nanny, you wouldn't have a muffin for the road, would you?"

Mrs. Hudson turned to look at him and jumped. She sighed. "Holmes, how many times have I told you not—"

"Nanny, I have no time to discuss myself," Holmes said.

"Well, this is new."

He gave her a look. "Daylight is wasting. Do you or do you not have a muffin?"

"No, Holmes, I don't."

Holmes rolled his eyes. "I suppose I shall have to make do without them."

"Exactly," Mrs. Hudson agreed. "Now if you will please get out of my kitchen, I would much appreciate it."

With a huff, Holmes headed for the door. However, before he could reach it, it swung open. Both Holmes and Mrs. Hudson stared in surprise as Inspector Lestrade strode in, flanked by two of his men.

"Inspector!" Nanny exclaimed.

"Lestrade," Holmes said. "What are you doing here?"

Lestrade reached out and seized Holmes's wrists, clapping a pair of irons on them. "Sherlock Holmes, you are under arrest for the kidnapping and suspected murder of Doctor John Watson."

Holmes's eyes went wide. "_What_?"

The inspector ignored him and looked at Mrs. Hudson. "And Mrs. Martha Hudson, I place you under arrest for assisting in the kidnapping and suspected murder of Doctor John Watson."

Mrs. Hudson looked terrified. "Inspector, you can't be serious!"

He nodded grimly. "I'm afraid I am."

With that, Mrs. Hudson and Holmes were escorted out of the house and into a carriage bound for Scotland Yard's headquarters.

* * *

**I pray that wasn't too cliche an ending. And yes, Nanny did just get arrested. But don't worry, she'll probably beat Lestrade's men senseless with a spatula or something sooner or later. Hope you had fun and review, if you would be so kind. **

**By the way, thank you so much for the reviews all y'all have sent thus far. I love them! **


	12. The Death of Doctor Watson

**Disclaimer: No part of Sherlock Holmes belongs to me. Not even a hair from Watson's moustache. :c**

**A/N: I very much like this chapter. I very much like the fact that it was up in the nick of time even more. I'm sure all y'all appreciate it too. ;D I apologize in advance for eating up your time—this thing is a beastly five pages long. **

* * *

No amount of questioning, convincing, or cursing got Lestrade to speak as the carriage bumped toward Scotland Yard. While Mrs. Hudson had resorted to stony silence, glaring icy daggers at the unfortunate man across from her, Holmes was growing ever more frantic.

_The kidnapping and suspected murder of Doctor John Watson._

Did that mean, then, that Watson was dead?

Holmes chewed on his lip, staring without seeing out the window of the carriage as grief chewed on his insides. In addition, Lestrade was providing no answers—not even as to why Holmes was being suspected for the deed. The sleuth was in fact half-convinced that Lestrade had gone absolutely bonkers since they had last met and was running around arresting every name that popped into his head. He had taken Mrs. Hudson into custody, for heaven's sakes! _Mrs. Hudson_!

Although really, Holmes didn't need answers. He knew exactly who had murdered Watson and subsequently framed him, and Mrs. Hudson.

The sleuth's biggest regret was letting Watson leave that way. Holmes felt the hollow hole of despair and guilt filling his stomach at the thought of how easily Moriarty could have finished his friend. He twisted his fingers tightly together and looked down at them. Oh, why did he have to let Watson go that day—unprotected, alone, his judgment fogged by anger at Holmes. Holmes, the cause of all this. It was his fault Watson was gone. When had it happened? Yesterday? The day before? Surely Holmes would have known…somehow….

He heaved a heavy sigh. "Lestrade…please…at least tell me how the good doctor passed."

"As if you didn't know," Lestrade scoffed. "You're the one that killed him."

"Are you mad, man?" Holmes exclaimed. "He was my dearest friend!"

"Your point being?"

Holmes sat up straight. "I loved that man like a brother. Give me, then, my motive for doing away with him!"

"You were in love with his fiancé," Lestrade replied.

The sleuth's jaw dropped. "_Me_? In love with _Mary_?"

"That is utterly absurd!" cried Mrs. Hudson.

"I loathe the woman!" Holmes yelped.

Lestrade didn't believe it. "You wanted Doctor Watson out of the picture."

Holmes gave the inspector a look of pure indignation. "Inspector, whatever source you received this information from is sorely mistaken."

"We discovered a letter on the doctor's person—a letter from Miss Morstan to you," Lestrade said.

Agitated, Holmes was becoming more fidgety by the second. "And what, pray tell, did this letter say?"

The inspector drew an envelope from within his coat and held it out to Holmes. "See for yourself."

Holmes's stomach turned at the red stain on one corner, but he accepted the envelope anyway. Sure enough, the name and address on the front were his, both written in Mary's curly handwriting.

"Open it," Mrs. Hudson whispered fearfully.

Holmes turned the envelope over. The seal was already broken—of course, if Lestrade had read it. Unsure of what to expect, he pulled the letter out and unfolded it.

_Dear Sherlock,_ it read.

_You know that I feel precisely the same. I wish things could have been different. But Watson is a good man, and I expect I shall be happy with him. I also expect you to control that temper of yours. Keep in mind that he is your nearest and dearest friend—and do not blame him for this. He is innocent, and I wish it to remain so. Behave as though I am nothing more than a friend to you. Do it for me, my love. _

_I am coming this approaching Thursday to Baker Street, to discuss wedding arrangements. I do hope to see you. Keep your chin up, darling. It will all work out for the best. _

_All my love,_

_Mary_

"Heavens above," breathed a horrified Mrs. Hudson, who had been reading over Holmes's shoulder.

Holmes himself was at a loss for words. He read the letter over again, and again, and then looked up at Lestrade. "…but…I didn't…" he said weakly.

The inspector smiled grimly behind his moustache, plucking the letter from Holmes's fingers. "Motive, dear Holmes."

He glared at Lestrade. "I have never corresponded with this woman."

"Never?"

"We have only met in the presence of Doctor Watson, her fiancé with whom she is very much in love," Holmes said, his tone stern. "In fact, Miss Morstan and I have never gotten along and I expect there will always be some natural animosity between us." He paused. "That is…if we remain in contact…now that the doctor is gone."

"Oh, I doubt she'll find time to write to her husband's murderer," Lestrade said in a cheery tone. "Especially with the extra fee for letters crossing through prison bars—or Heaven's gates. We haven't yet decided what to do with you."

Holmes shook his head, too grief-stricken and upset to argue any longer. "Lestrade. Listen to me." He leaned forward intently. "You have known Watson and I, together, for five years. You have known me eighteen months beyond that. Inspector, you _know_ that I did not kill Watson."

Inspector Lestrade gave an infuriating smile. "Well, we'll just have to wait and see, won't we."

The remainder of the ride passed in silence.

Finally the coach paused in front of the station. Holmes and Mrs. Hudson were helped out, hands still bound, and ushered up the stairs. Lestrade held the door open and the suspects were escorted in.

"Firstly, let us go take a look at the body," Lestrade announced as they walked down the hall.

"Ohh…." Mrs. Hudson stopped, catching the entire party by surprise, including her escort. She swallowed, eyes filling with tears. "Please, Inspector…no."

Holmes furrowed his brow, a strong feeling of sympathy and affection for his landlady washing over him.

"I'm afraid I must insist," Lestrade replied.

The sleuth rounded on him. "Inspector. You _cannot_—"

"I'm afraid…I must insist," he repeated slowly.

Mrs. Hudson let out a small sob, pushing her hands to her mouth. Holmes shoved off his guard and stepped to her side, reaching up and clasping one of her hands. "Come now, Mrs. Hudson," he murmured, "it'll be alright."

The officers looked inquisitively at Lestrade, who shrugged, and allowed Holmes to lead Mrs. Hudson down the corridor after the inspector, shooting dagger-filled glares at his back. The landlady's soft tears were just audible above their echoing footsteps. Repeatedly the two escorts exchanged uncomfortable glances, and Holmes was staring stoically ahead, still clutching Mrs. Hudson's fingers, but Lestrade paid no mind to any of them.

Finally he stopped in front of a door and turned. "I warn you now," he said. "What you see within this room may upset you."

Holmes bit his tongue to refrain from pointing out that the mere thought of it already had.

Lestrade took a ring of keys from his pocket, selected one, and unlocked the door. He pushed it open and strode inside. Holmes followed a foot or two behind, virtually pulling Mrs. Hudson with him. Gritting his teeth and bracing himself for the worst, Holmes was still entirely caught off guard by the sight that met his eyes.

There was a body on the autopsy table—the body of a stranger. Doctor Watson was lounging comfortably in a chair beside it, reading a book. He looked up as they entered and smiled. "Oh hello."

Mrs. Hudson let out a wail and tore her hand away from Holmes, rushing across the room and flinging her arms around Watson's neck. "Doctor! _Doctor_! I kn-knew you c-couldn't be dead, not you!"

Watson grinned and returned his landlady's embrace. "I take it you apprehended them, Inspector?"

Lestrade was smiling in the corner. "Came this close to escaping the country, they did."

Holmes stared at Watson, who gazed back over the head of the bawling Mrs. Hudson. The air between them was solid. It was the doctor who finally broke the silence. "Figured it out?"

"Of course," the sleuth answered. "Quite ingenious, I admit. I take it you thought of it?" He was aware of Lestrade's scoff out of the corner of his eye.

"I learned from the best," Watson said coolly.

Holmes frowned, caught somewhere in between his joy that Watson was alive and that he himself was not going to prison, his lasting anger and guilt from the words Watson had shouted at him the last time they had spoken, and his indignation that the doctor had carried out such a monumental move without consulting him.

Mrs. Hudson had managed to calm herself and looked up, still kneeling beside the doctor's chair, her shackled arms hung around his neck. "You mean…there was a purpose for this? For dragging us from our home and…and _traumatizing_ us?"

Holmes didn't bother stating that he had never been traumatized. Rather he took a deep breath and sighed. "Lestrade, if you would kindly remove these infernal cuffs, I will explain to the woman."

Lestrade removed the shackles from the wrists of both Holmes and Mrs. Hudson. An officer entered with two more chairs, placing them near Watson. Mrs. Hudson immediately sat down, smoothing her skirt and drying her eyes, but Holmes hung back. Watson gave him a look of mild amusement.

"Sit, Holmes. The chair doesn't bite."

Stiffly, the sleuth crossed the room and sank into the chair. His eyes never once broke contact with the doctor's.

"Well, Holmes, get on with it," Mrs. Hudson said.

"My apologies," he murmured, finally looking away from the doctor and focusing instead on the wall behind his head. He sighed again and began. "While you were still being treated by Doctor Harvey, Watson received an urgent message from a patient. He needed to leave quite suddenly."

Holmes ignored the twitching at the corner of Watson's mouth.

"However, I'm certain that once he did he realized he was vulnerable to another attack by Professor Moriarty or one of his henchmen. Perhaps he even evaded such an attack. Either way, the doctor found it necessary to disappear for a while. Naturally he faked his own death. I'm sure if we had bothered to glance at the paper, we would have seen his name in the obituaries. That makes the second time in less than two weeks, if I'm not mistaken. And I assure you, I am not."

Mrs. Hudson gave Watson an affectionate smile, which Holmes ignored, staring ever harder at the wall.

"Unfortunately, this left us vulnerable to unexpected attack. Moriarty would of course assume Watson had cheated death a second time, and would no doubt send someone to check. Therefore, the doctor devised a plan to remove us from harm's way and give the general public false information as to our whereabouts at the same time."

Holmes sighed again, looking bored. "He had Lestrade frame us for his murder and cart us off to Scotland Yard, where we would undoubtedly be found guilty and sentenced either to prison or death, either of which would sufficiently remove us from Moriarty's grasp."

"But surely the professor wouldn't believe you were truly having an affair with Mary," Mrs. Hudson said.

"Of course not," Holmes scoffed. "But he has always deemed his intelligence above that of the law, which he has unfortunately proven many times—do not try to disagree, Lestrade—and would find nothing strange in the fact that the police and the public came to such a conclusion. In fact," Holmes said, realizing for the first time something he had not noticed, "he may see this as an opportunity to make his move, now that I am out of his way." He shot a furtive glance at Watson, who was nodding with a satisfied expression on his face.

"Very good, Holmes," the doctor said.

Holmes's gaze drifted away again. "Naturally."

"Brilliant, doctor," Mrs. Hudson beamed.

"It wasn't just me," Watson said humbly. "Mary played a part as well. She wrote the letter Lestrade showed you."

"Ah, yes," Holmes said. "Although the blood was a bit much."

"You should've seen his face when he saw it," Lestrade chortled from behind them. Holmes shot the inspector a glare over his shoulder.

Watson chuckled. "Well, the important thing is that the three of us are safe. Thank you, Lestrade, for your assistance."

"My pleasure, Doctor Watson," Lestrade said. "You're very easy to work with." Holmes twitched at the veiled insult, but continued burning holes in the wall. "Mrs. Hudson, I offer my most sincere apologies for causing you such stress," Lestrade said graciously. "Would you care to accompany me to the kitchen?"

The landlady rose, surprised. "There's a kitchen here?"

"Of course." Lestrade led her out into the hall, and the sound of the door closing resounded through the silence.

Holmes stood up and began walking slowly around the room. Watson followed him with his eyes. "That was an excellent deduction, Holmes."

He grunted.

Watson paused. "Considering the small amount of data you possessed, I'm impressed."

Holmes stopped and turned towards him. "Impressed, are you?"

"Why yes."

"Hmm." Holmes began pacing again. "Interesting."

"Interesting?" Watson raised his eyebrows.

"Yes, very."

"Pray tell, how so?"

Holmes stopped once more. "I was under the impression that you thought I was an 'arrogant, selfish child'."

Watson frowned. "I do. And you are." Holmes stared at him and he added, "But only sometimes. Other times…well, you're quite brilliant."

The sleuth furrowed his brow. "Am I supposed to take that for an apology, Watson?"

The doctor nodded.

Holmes looked away, the tiniest of pouts on his face. "Well…apology accepted."

Watson smiled. "Then as long as we're on speaking terms again—we are on speaking terms, aren't we?"

Holmes shrugged.

"Well, as long as we're on speaking terms, I think it only fair of me to request an apology from you."

He turned. "_Me_? Why? I—"

"Mary was attacked, Holmes," Watson said in a surprisingly calm voice.

Holmes stared. His mouth opened slightly, but no words came out, for he didn't know what to say. "In…in Norway? All the way up there?" He pointed to his right.

Watson pointed the other way. "No, Holmes, all the way up there," he corrected. "But yes. In Norway."

"Oh…Watson, I—"

"She's fine, Holmes. But she is returning here. We both agreed that it was safest for her to be with me." Watson leaned forward. "You need to finish this, Holmes. This is the third time Moriarty has failed. Imagine the rage he is in. If he is given the chance, he will not fail again. _You_ must be the one to end it, and quickly."

Holmes nodded. "I wholly agree." He reclaimed his chair across from the doctor. "However, I have much to learn about this whole business. So I suggest we sit here and stretch our minds. What say you, Watson?"

The doctor smiled. "But of course."

* * *

**Hope very much you enjoyed. And I don't know if you guys can tell, but I've been trying to improve my writing style. I think it's working, lol, but I'm not sure. So if you notice a difference, please share. It would be much appreciated. ~**


	13. A Present

**Disclaimer: None of the characters from Sherlock Holmes belong to me. Not even Parliament Member #5. If there even is such a person. **

**A/N: I feel as though I'm disgracing the hallowed number thirteen with this small morsel of crap. You know how all the experienced people always say NO INFORMATION DUMPING? Well this whole chapter is information dumping. I really needed to review the progress of the case and so I figured the rest of you might need to as well. Nothing exciting happens. No drama. Nothing. Just a short, pointless filler. I sincerely apologize. Oh, but on the bright side, I actually have a plot in mind now. Yeah. There wasn't one before. And you thought I was this amazing omniscient being. Surprise!**

* * *

"Where to begin?"

Watson stroked his moustache thoughtfully, watching Holmes pace back and forth across the room. "Let's start with Irene."

"No, let's start with Blackwood."

"…Blackwood?"

"Yes. You remember him, I'm sure."

"…well of course, but what does he have to do with—"

"You recall his nefarious plan," Holmes continued, "to destroy Parliament and place the whole of the British Empire in his clammy hands."

Watson decided to go along for the ride. Holmes would make his point soon enough. "Yes."

"And he engineered a most nefarious little device meant to poison the politicians by the very air they breathed."

A light bulb went on in the doctor's brain. "The device was left unguarded and Moriarty stole a piece."

"Not unguarded. Simply underguarded, unfortunately for the policeman posted there," Holmes corrected. "So whatever Moriarty is up to…that piece of the machine, whatever it does, is important. We must know what it does, and soon. But let us continue walking the path that brought us here."

"Now to Irene," Watson said. "She escaped prison, with no small thanks to you."

"She would have done it anyway," Holmes said defiantly.

Watson scoffed. "No matter. She escaped prison and came scampering back to her master."

"No," Holmes disagreed. "She was frightened of him. She never would have returned voluntarily. And she is trying to help us. Remember the dogs?"

"Unfortunately. So Moriarty picked her up," Watson said.

"Yes. But why has she agreed to aid him?" Holmes murmured, more to himself than to Watson.

"We'll have to ask her later," Watson replied, not without a bit of sarcasm.

"I would much rather know now," Holmes said. "It could be key."

"Well, let's write that on the list of Things We Don't Know," Watson said, "and continue with what we _do_ know."

"Irene is working with Moriarty," Holmes stated. "And he has another henchman. That dreadfully tall, peaky young man."

"Ah yes." Watson grimaced.

"He has set up a laboratory in the home of one of the richest men in London—Irene provided him with that. And he is using sulfuric acid…and cotton. For a purpose not yet known to us. Now, he has threatened to dispose of my friends, including you, Watson. Yet you were the first target, which makes little sense, as you are the one closest to me," Holmes said.

"So you decided that Moriarty and I have a connection," Watson reminded him.

"I stand by that theory," Holmes said. "You treated him once. For his tuberculosis. And somehow…you came into possession of some significant piece of information."

"But how?" Watson protested. "I don't even know…." The doctor trailed off at the look on his friend's face. "…Holmes?"

"Watson," Holmes whispered, "I've just had a thought."

"Well…share…!"

Holmes shook his head. "No. Not until I can follow up my suspicions."

Watson frowned, but refrained from pursuing the matter further. "Well…on that note—"

"We need to pay a visit to the Duke's estate," Holmes said. "We can gain nothing more by speculating in our comfortable armchairs near the fire. We must get out there. Into the field."

"Are you sure that's wise, Holmes?"

"Wise? Absolutely not. But necessary." Holmes strode towards the door. "I know you just sent for Mary. I will have Lestrade handpick a team of his best officers to keep a constant vigil over her and Mrs. Hudson. I will, of course, require you by my side."

Watson sighed and climbed to his feet. "If I must."

Holmes paused and regarded the doctor. "It's either risk your life for the greater good with me, or stay and chat with this lively fellow." He pointed to the forgotten corpse on the counter. "Who is that, anyway?"

Watson shook his head. "No idea."

"Hmm." Holmes shrugged. "Well, let us be off."

He led Watson out of the room. "We must of course take the utmost care not to be seen by anyone, because you are dead and I am in prison."

"Naturally."

"And we mustn't forget the dogs."

"Yes."

"And if the situation spirals out of control, we must not leave without Irene."

"Holmes."

"I must insist on this, Watson. I could not live with myself if something were to happen to her."

"Could you live with yourself if something happened to us?" Watson retorted. Holmes merely walked a little faster, and the doctor heaved a sigh.

"Lestrade," Holmes said as they marched into the Yard's kitchen, "the doctor and I are going to pay the dear professor a visit."

Lestrade stared at him for a moment, still holding the teapot being used to serve Mrs. Hudson, who was sitting at the table and equally stunned. "Holmes…" she finally said, "…is that wise?"

"We have already been through this," Holmes said impatiently. "The fact of the matter is, Lestrade, that Miss Morstan and Nanny here will be unprotected whilst Watson and I are gone. They shall have need of protection by your most trustworthy men."

"Naturally," Lestrade said, regaining his composure. "And what will the two of you need?"

"A carriage," Holmes said. "Of the inconspicuous sort, of course. And a chance to raid your pantry." He strode to the cupboards and began rooting through them. "We should be back before midnight."

"Midnight?" echoed Lestrade. "Holmes, it's hardly noon."

"Trust me, Lestrade," Holmes grunted, halfway inside a cupboard. "We shall be finished near midnight. Tell your carriage driver to bring a book." He rose with a bulging gunnysack in his hands. "This should do. Thank you, Lestrade."

"Wait a moment, what is that?"

"What is what?" Holmes replied. "Come, Watson, let us leave through the rear door."

Lestrade made as if to protest, but wisely gave it up. "I'll send a driver to meet you."

"Very good," Holmes said. He saluted Mrs. Hudson. "Nanny, I shall expect a cup of soothing herbal tea upon my return."

Watson shook his head and followed after Holmes with an apologetic look at both his housekeeper and the inspector. "What do you have in the sack?"

"A present," Holmes answered.

The doctor frowned. "For who? Moriarty?"

"No."

"Irene?"

"No."

"…who?"

"No one you would know," Holmes said as they exited the building. And no amount of questioning from Watson could get him to say any more.

* * *

**Oh yeah. If you haven't figured it out by now, I'm back from hiatus. xD I've been back for a while but it took me way too long to write this pointless thing. It turns out that my original novel needs a lot more than some editing. I'm expecting work on it to extend well into next year. So I figured I'd be nice and come back. Expect a much better update soon and I would just like to thank you guys for sticking with this. Means a lot. **


	14. Cotton

**Disclaimer: None of the characters from Sherlock Holmes are mine. There are a few minor characters in this chapter, however, that are from somewhere in my two to three pounds of brain matter. **

**A/N: So this chapter is quite long, and I offer my apologies to your family/friends/significant others/teachers/bosses for eating up your time. About half of it was also written after ten PM. But contrary to my belief that it's mainly disjointed rambling, I have a reliable beta reader telling me that it's amazing. So prepare to be amazed! **

* * *

Rather than heading straight for the duke's estate, Holmes ordered the carriage driver to stop in front of a dilapidated old pub once they entered the nearby village.

"I want to converse with the natives," he said to Watson by way of explanation. Holmes stepped down from the coach and the doctor followed suit. "Meet us here in an hour, my good man," Holmes said to the driver. "Feel free to explore in the meantime, but kindly refrain from attracting attention."

"Will do, Mr. Holmes."

"Such a pleasant fellow," Holmes remarked as he led Watson to the peeling green door of the bar. "I hardly need to remind you of the basic rules of sleuthing?"

"Hardly," Watson said. He pushed open the door. "After you."

Holmes's entire demeanor changed as he entered the pub. He slid his lower jaw forward and gave himself a jutting underbite. Both his brows drooped until his eyes were hardly visible. He rolled his shoulders forward and hunched over, letting his arms swing limply like those of a caveman. Twisting his head in the most unnatural way in order to look at Watson, the sleuth said in the hoarsest of growls, "Make yourself ugly." With that, he lumbered inside.

Watson paused for a moment to contemplate this last order, but the awful sound of Holmes clearing his throat interrupted his reflection. Quickly the doctor untucked his shirt and ran his hand along the windowsill, gathering more than enough dust to smack around on his clothes. Frowning, he removed his hat and after some hesitation, punched in the top, wincing as he did so. He placed it back on his head and thoughtfully screwed up his eyes in an attempt to copy Holmes.

"_Watson_!"

"Coming!" the doctor whispered, ducking inside.

Holmes took one look at him and grumbled in grudging acceptance. He plodded to an empty table in the far corner and dropped into one of the chairs, immediately leaning it back on two legs. He produced a wooden toothpick from somewhere and set about mutilating it with his teeth, the picture of lowlife relaxation.

Watson trailed after him and took the other seat. Uneasily he surveyed the pub and the patrons seated at the rest of the tables. "Hol—"

"Don't be thick, Arnold. My name's Jacques."

The doctor glanced at his friend. "Fine…Jacques, I don't—"

Holmes put his hand up for silence as a brawny barmaid in a dirty apron stalked over to them. "You want anything?" she snapped.

"Information," Holmes rumbled.

She was unimpressed. "Do you want a _drink_, sir?"

"No, love, I don't," he shot back.

The barmaid rounded on Watson. "You?"

"Uhh…no," he said. "Nothing for me."

Rolling her eyes, she made as if to return to the bar. Holmes stopped her. "Oy there, love."

Visibly gritting her teeth, she turned back to him. "You want information? Go talk to him." The barmaid pointed across the room to an unsavory man watching a group of ladies pass by outside. "Name's Andrew. He gets to know everything, one way or another."

Holmes offered her a frightening grimace that Watson presumed to be a smile. "Thank you kindly, love." The barmaid moved off and the sleuth tipped his creaking chair forward. "Come, Arnie. Let us pay dear Andrew a visit."

"_Arnie_?"

Watson caught a chuckle as Holmes stomped past him, making a beeline for the man sitting alone near the door. The doctor rose and followed.

Andrew happened to spot them when they were still halfway across the room. The muscles in his neck tightened with nervousness and his filthy fingernails began tapping a fast rhythm on the tabletop. His bloodshot eyes flicked to the exit and back to Holmes and Watson as he weighed his options. Before he could reach a decision, however, they were upon him.

"Good afternoon," Holmes said, clapping a hand onto Andrew's shoulder as he sat down. Watson could've sworn a puff of dust darted up from the man's coat. "Andrew, eh?"

"Who…who are you?" Andrew stammered. "I don't know nothing 'bout nothing, I was only—"

Holmes clenched his fingers around Andrew's shoulder and he stopped talking as though he'd been switched off. "We aren't here about that, love."

Andrew looked at him in surprise. "You're…you're not?"

The sleuth shook his head. The little smile on his face was sufficient to send poor Andrew's fingers dancing even faster. "No. We've got bigger fish to fry."

Watson eyed the fidgety man with distaste. Not only was he coated head to toe in a layer of dirt; he was panting like a dog and smelled like one as well. Beads of sweat left semi-clean trails in the muck on his face. He glanced pleadingly out the window, where the group of young ladies had paused to chat. How he could see anything was beyond Watson. The glass was so grimy that it could've been night outside and no one would be the wiser.

"Fish, huh?" Andrew stuttered. "Never liked fish much myself…."

"Excellent," Holmes said. "Then you won't mind this one being caught."

Andrew looked as though he very much wanted Holmes to release his shoulder. "What do you…what do you want to know?"

"The Duke of Hampshire. Lives just down the way there. What do you know about him?"

"Dead and buried, ain't he, last I heard. Why? He owe you something?"

Andrew uttered a piteous squeak as Holmes squeezed his shoulder again. "None of your business, now, is it? The house. It's still inhabited. By who?"

"His widow! And a few of her gang, she brought them over a little while ago."

"'Her gang', eh? What do you know about them?"

"Nothing. Ow! Nothing, I swear!"

Watson glared around the pub at those who had begun to stare. He leaned forward, blue eyes fixed on Andrew's. "What about the widow, Andy?" he asked, adopting Holmes's affinity for nicknames. "You seem quite the ladies' man."

Holmes shot the doctor an approving look as Andrew raised an unruly brow. The corners of his mouth lifted in a smirk. "Pretty, ain't she? Gorgeous, more like. Why the likes of her takes up with an old windbag like that…money though, ain't it…."

"We don't care why she married him," Watson snapped. "What's she doing there?"

"How should I know? Hey, hey!" He finally wrested his shoulder away from Holmes's ruthless grasp. "I already told you! She's got a bunch of friends there, ain't she? Who knows what they're doing!"

"So you don't see them around," Holmes stated.

"What? No. No, they never come out." Andrew shook his head violently for emphasis. "Honest!" he proclaimed as Holmes narrowed his eyes. They were barely visible now.

"Not a clue," Holmes said, "as to what's going on?"

Andrew paused. "Well…you know…I did see her at the mill, couple days back…I wasn't following her or nothing, just…by chance, you know…."

Holmes frowned in surprise. "The mill, you say?"

"The cotton mill. This is a mill town, ain't it?"

The sleuth exchanged a furtive glance with Watson. There was a peculiar look in his eyes that Watson recognized. Holmes had reached a conclusion. "Arnold, I believe we owe the mill a visit." He pushed his chair away from the table with the awful screech of wood scraping across wood. "Thank you kindly, Andrew," he muttered. "With any luck, we shall never meet again." He strode for the door. Watson followed, after sparing a last hostile glance for Andrew.

"So what have you deduced, old boy?" Watson asked as the pair of them shed their unsavory demeanors.

"I am not entirely sure," Holmes answered, "but I believe it has the potential to be quite explosive. Literally."

This gave Watson some pause. "Holmes…."

"Sulfuric acid," Holmes said. "Sulfuric acid and cotton."

The formula rang a bell in the back of Watson's mind. "…and you say it is a type of explosive?"

"No, not quite. But combined with a third ingredient, yes. That is precisely what I am saying." He turned the corner. "I suspect she was on a supply run for the professor. We shall need to know how much cotton she obtained."

"Very well."

* * *

The cotton mill resounded with the combined grinding of dozens of machines. Little more than thirty seconds passed before Watson was convinced he would never hear the same again. Endless rows of mechanized looms stretched before them, with haggard-looking women pacing wearily up and down the aisles in order to supervise. The doctor was shocked to see children, boys and girls, dodging the whirring gears and pulleys with determined looks on their young faces. They couldn't have been more than eight years old, every one of them. Child labor was nothing strange, but all the same, there was something different about seeing the poor wretches in person. They belonged in school, not in a sweltering madhouse such as this.

Watson looked to Holmes to see his reaction to this outrage, but the sleuth was preoccupied in watching a woman striding towards them, all the while shouting hoarsely to the workers.

"Come on, you lazy lot! This isn't break time! Lucy! Watch your skirt, for goodness sake!" She nearly tripped over a small boy with peroxide-blonde hair. "Heavens, Louis, what are you playing at?" With a tender look on her face, she lifted him into her arms and forked him on her hip. She approached Holmes and Watson with none of the love that had been in her expression not two seconds before. "Oy! You can't come in here! What do you want?"

"Just a few simple answers, madam," Holmes said.

Thin pieces of pale brown hair were floating from her bun, sticking to her sweaty face. She shoved them out of her eyes, regarding the sleuth with suspicion. "Are you from the board?"

Watson found the little boy watching him with big brown eyes. He had one sticky thumb in his mouth and was sucking on it as though it were candy. There was an unmistakable resemblance to the woman in his round face—the same nose, same long lashes. The doctor noted, however, that her left hand was devoid of any sort of ring.

"No, not from the board," Holmes replied. Watson reverted his attention to the task at hand. "We are investigating some…questionable circumstances considering the late Duchess of Hampshire."

"Oh." The woman's brows furrowed with surprise. "Why?"

"We believe she has been mixing with the wrong sort of crowd," Holmes said. "For a woman of her standing."

"Have you seen her recently?" Watson asked.

The woman regarded him for a moment before making her answer. "Yes…she was here just the other day."

"May I inquire as to why?" Holmes said.

"She came for some cotton." Her tone made it plain that she was still puzzled about the matter. "I refused her at first, but she offered quite the sum."

"How much did she claim?"

"A full basket," the woman said with disdain. "Why she could possibly need that much is beyond me."

"Are you married?" Watson questioned all the sudden.

Both Holmes and the woman gave him an odd look. "…yes," she said after a pause. "We're a bit…short on funding…for a ring."

Watson stepped forward. She started and took half a step back, but halted as the doctor took little Louis's hand with his fingers and bounced it gently. "This is your son?"

She nodded again, and her eyes quickly filled with emotion. "My husband…he works in the mines…no place for children, you can imagine." The doctor nodded his understanding, suddenly grateful for his standing in the world and the engagement ring on his Mary's finger.

Holmes cleared his throat with a certain amount of awkwardness. "Well…I thank you most graciously for your help, madam. Oh—one more thing, before we depart…did the duchess have a peculiar smell about her?"

Now it was Watson's turn to stare at his friend. But Louis's mother nodded, wrinkling her nose at the memory. "Yes…it burnt the nostrils. I thought it rather odd."

"Thank you," Holmes said again. "Come, Arnold." The sleuth started for the exit, but Watson hesitated.

"Could you, by chance, find a use for this?" he asked, digging into his pocket and retrieving the small amount of money therein.

The woman looked shocked and shook her head. "No…no, we couldn't."

"Yes, you could." Watson pressed it into her hand. "Consider it thanks for your help."

She bit her lip, working to subdue tears. "This means a lot, sir." Her voice was humbly quiet.

Watson shrugged and gave Louis a smile. "Take care of yourself. Both of you." With this, he backed out of the factory.

Holmes was waiting for him beside the door. "Shall we?"

They set off down the road in silence.

After a pause, Holmes spoke again. "That was quite a noble act, Watson."

The doctor shrugged a second time. "She seemed to possess a greater need than I."

"All the same, it was very kind of you." Holmes patted his friend's shoulder.

Watson blew all the air from his lungs. "And what of you? Did you hear what you hoped to hear?"

"Unfortunately, I did, in fact." Holmes buried his hands in the pockets of his coat. "My hunch has been proven so correct that I daresay it deserves the title of fact."

"What hunch is that?"

"Cotton? Sulfuric acid? A peculiar odor that burns the nose? The latter is a telltale sign of nitric acid, I am willing to bet. And these two chemical substances put with the quantity of cotton obtained by Irene…."

Watson suddenly recalled the result of the familiar formula. "Gun-cotton."

"Precisely," Holmes said. "Moriarty is producing that notoriously explosive gun-cotton. And in no small amount either."

The doctor furrowed his brow. "But what could he want with gun-cotton?"

A grim smile crossed Holmes's face. "Excellent question."

* * *

**And cue the DUNDUNDUN. I did an extensive amount of research for this chapter, so I hope you all thoroughly appreciated it. Nah, just kidding. I do hope you noticed the small change in writing style, though. After reading a certain Inception fic, I had an inferiority complex and put myself to work on improving. I rather like the results. R&R! **


End file.
